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JASON    EDWARDS 


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JASON  EDWARDS 

AN   AVERAGE    MAN 


BY    HAMLIN    GARLAND 

AUTHOR  OF  WAYSIDE  COURT- 
SHIPS,  A  SPOIL  OF  OFFICE,  A 
LITTLE  NORSK,  ETC.  :::::: 


NEW  YORK 

D.    APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 
M  DCCC  XCVII 


Copyright,  1897,  by 
D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1891,  by  Hamlin  Garland 


PS 


JASON    EDWARDS. 

PAKT  FIRST — THE  MECHANIC. 
I. 

THERE  was  a  phrase  which  very  com 
pletely  defined  the  character  of  Wal 
ter  Reeves.  He  was  level-headed.  He 
faced  the  street,  hideous  with  mud,  and 
tumultuous  with  the  war  of  belated  busi 
ness,  with  a  laughing  face  and  steady 
brown  eyes,  though  the  city  impressed  him 
more  than  he  expected  it  to  do.  Fresh 
from  college  in  an  interior  New  England 
town,  where  life  moved  quietly — this  rush 
of  men  and  teams  over  greasy,  black  cob 
ble-stones  deafened  and  bewildered  him. 

He  stood  a  little  while  in  the  mouth  of 
the  depot,  a  gloomy,  castellated  structure. 


JASON  EDWARDS. 


His  first  thought  was  how  to  get  a  board 
ing  place.  He  set  off  at  last,  breasting 
the  stream  of  suburban  people  making 
toward  the  trains.  He  was  conscious  of  a 
little  feeling  of  pride  in  his  appearance, 
and  was  flattered  by  the  pleasant  glances 
the  young  girls  gave  him  as  they  passed  in 
their  beautiful  blue  and  wine-colored  water 
proof  cloaks. 

The  boarding-house  problem  puzzled 
him.  Like  the  thrifty  New  England  boy 
he  was,  he  couldn't  think  of  going  to  a 
hotel,  so  he  fell  into  the  slender  stream  of 
people  moving  off  into  the  heart  of  the 
city.  This  brought  him  inevitably  to  the 
Common,  which  he  had  visited  once  on  a 
Fourth  of  July  excursion. 

It  was  growing  dark  now,  and  the  rain 
was  falling  steadily.  The  November  wind 
had  a  wild  and  lonesome  sound  in  the 
branches  over  his  head — but  he  only  heard 
that  when  the  heavy  gusts  came.  The 
ceaseless  tramp  of  hooves  and  the  grinding 
roar  of  the  cars  deafened  and  clouded  his 
brain. 

He  kept  on  down  the  plank  walk  till 


JASON  EDWARDS. 


he  came  to  the  end  of  the  Common.  He 
paused  and  considered.  A  fat,  very  red- 
haired  policeman  was  standing  in  the  mid 
dle  of  the  intersecting  streets  directing  the 
streams  of  impatient  drivers  and  sheltering 
timid  ladies  across  the  way  under  his  chev- 
roned  arm. 

Walter  had  always  been  told  that  the 
only  safe  person  to  ask  a  question  of  on 
the  street  was  a  policeman,  so  he  stood  an 
instant  by  the  side  of  the  gesticulating 
giant,  and  asked  for  a  good,  cheap  boarding- 
house. 

"F'r  Gawd's  sake!"  growled  the  stupe 
fied  officer,  looking  down  into  Reeves'  face. 
"Where  you  born?— H'yar!  What  're 
y'  doin'  there?  G'wan!"  he  shouted  to  a 
hackman  who  was  cutting  in  ahead  of  a 
car.  He  then  remembered  Reeves.  "Any 
where.  De  whole  town  is  full  of  'urn" — he 
threw  out  his  arm  toward  the  left — "Git 
a  move  on  ye  there!" 

Walter  crossed  the  street  and  moved  in 
the  direction  indicated  by  the  policeman. 
It  was  a  noisy  and  crowded  street,  and  he 
turned  off  instinctively  upon  one  of  the 


JASON  EDWARDS. 


side  streets.  Cards  saying  "Rooms"  were 
in  the  basement  windows  here  and  there, 
and  occasionally  "Board  and  Rooms".  He 
rang  the  bell  of  one  of  the  latter  places  and 
a  tall  and  handsome  woman  came  to  the 
door. 

"I'd  like  to  get  board  here,"  he  said, 
looking  up  at  her.  She  studied  him  as 
was  her  need.  She  liked  him. 

"  Very  well.  Won't  you  come  in  ?  "  She 
prided  herself  on  being  a  judge  of  faces. 

He  set  as  the  limit  of  his  board  bill  five 
dollars  per  week,  and  was  delighted  when 
he  found  he  could  get  board  and  room  for 
four  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents.  He  set 
his  valise  down  on  the  floor  after  the  land 
lady  had  gone,  and  surveyed  his  "Hall 
room,  one  flight".  It  was  exactly  six  feet 
by  twelve,  the  little  cot-bed  occupied  half 
the  width,  and  a  little  table  and  wash- 
stand  filled  in  the  chinks.  However,  it 
was  all  new  and  strange  and  delightful. 
It  had  some  of  the  effect  of  camping  in 
the  woods. 

He  lay  down  on  the  bed  and  planned  his 
campaign.  He  had  always  looked  for- 


JASON  EDWARDS. 


ward  to  doing  newspaper  work,  and  he 
had  long  had  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  Events, 
as  the  paper  he  would  like  best  to  be  con 
nected  with.  He  determined  to  call  upon 
the  editor  of  the  Events  first.  He  had  a 
note  of  introduction.  It  was  from  his 
teacher,  who  had  spent  a  couple  of  weeks 
with  the  editor  at  a  Summer  hotel. 

He  found  him  with  head  immersed  in  a 
roll-top  desk  like  an  ox  in  a  manger  of 
hay.  He  was  a  kindly  man  naturally,  but 
he  was  worn  and  pre-occupied. 

"Sit  down — si'  down!"  he  said,  but  as 
the  only  chair  beside  his  was  piled  with 
papers,  Walter  remained  standing. 

The  editor  read  the  note  in  a  flash,  and 
took  his  pen  down  from  behind  his  ear 
and  began  correcting  manuscript  as  he 
replied — 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Reeves.  You 
might  see  our  Mr.  Daggett — I'm  afraid 
it  won't  do  any  good — but  something's 
turning  up  almost  every  day,  and" — he 
forgot  to  finish,  and  Reeves  went  out. 

He  stood  out  in  the  counting-room  a  long 
time  and  looked  up  along  the  line  of  clerks. 


6  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"Where'll  I  find  Mr.  Daggett?" 

"First  window  right,"  said  the  youth 
without  looking  up.  He  had  the  tone  of 
a  clerk  who  had  little  to  do  and  didn't 
care  to  do  that. 

"I'd  like  to  see  Mr.  Daggett,"  Reeves 
asked  at  the  next  window. 

"Four  flights,"  was  the  reply  of  clerk 
No.  2  in  the  same  tone. 

Walter  was  getting  angry.  He  climbed 
the  four  flights  and  came  into  a  long  room 
with  a  row  of  stalls  on  the  right-hand  side, 
a  window  to  each  stall.  A  tall  old  man 
with  his  hands  full  of  strips  of  printed 
matter  was  coming  out  of  the  second  stall. 

"I'd  like  to  see  Mr.  Daggett." 

"Eight  here,  sir." 

A  grizzled  man  with  a  very  ragged  coat 
and  a  shade  over  his  eyes  looked  up.  His 
very  glance  was  a  staccato  question. 

Walter  made  his  request. 

"Got  mor'n  we  can  use  now.  I  wish 
Miller'd  stop  this  thing.  There's  no  place 
for  you  here." 

"Exactly,"  said  Walter,  who  was  just  net 
tled  enough  to  be  on  his  dignity.  "Knew 


JASON  EDWARDS. 


you'd  say  just  that.  Now  I  want  you  to 
look  at  me  hard — so  you'll  know  me 
again." 

Daggett  looked  at  him  in  astonishment, 
his  grey  eyes  getting  big  and  round. 

"What  the  devil  do  I  care  how  you 
look?" 

"  Because  I  may  be  sitting  in  your  place 
before  five  years  are  up.  Here's  my  card. 
I'm  green,  but  I  ain't  a  salad." 

Daggett  laughed.  "Well,  young  man, 
you've  got  cheek,  if  nothing  more.  Go 
ahead,  let's  see  what  you  can  do. 

Thus  dismissed,  Reeves  went  down  the 
long  stairs  a  little  hot,  but  with  the  determ 
ination  to  fulfill  his  word  now,  at  any  cost. 
He  wTas  not  entirely  unfamiliar  with  the 
needs  of  a  newspaper,  and  so  as  he  sat  in 
his  little  hall  bedroom  that  night,  he  laid 
out  his  plan. 

"The  first  thing  a  reporter  wants  to  do 
is  to  know  the  town.  I'll  simply  get  this 
whole  city  mapped  out  in  my  head  like  a 
cabbage  field.  The  reporter's  business  is  to 
get  the  news — and  what  the  paper  wants 
is  the  news,  and  news  they'll  have.  I'll 


JASON  EDWARDS. 


send  in  something  every  day,  or  break  my 
neck  tryin',  that's  all.  They  won't  pay 
for  it,  but  that's  nothing — they  will  one  o' 
these  days." 

So  he  set  to  work  to  ransack  the  city. 
He  first  studied  the  streets.  A  hack  driver 
gave  him  a  clue  to  the  labyrinth. 

"Now  here's  Washington  Street — see? 
Well,  dat's  de  backbone  o'  de  hull  blame 
town — see?  An'  Tre-mont  is  jist  like  it. 
Now  w'en  you  start  out  to  look  f'r  anny 
place,  jist  figger  out  whedder  it's  on  de 
hind-leg  'r  de  shoulder — see?" 

Reeves  saw.  This  luminous  description 
of  Boston's  anatomy  was  worth  more  as  a 
starter  than  any  map.  He  soon  knew 
every  principal  street.  Next  he  studied 
the  districts  of  the  city.  He  found  that 
the  West  End  held  most  colored  people, 
the  North  End  most  Italians,  the  South 
End  most  Irish,  Harrison  Avenue  most 
Chinese.  He  studied  the  wharves  till  the 
longshoremen  wondered  at  him.  He  dis 
covered  a  great  deal  about  sailors,  one 
thing  being  that  they  never  talked  in 
nautical  metaphors. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  9 

He  dressed  in  plain,  thick  gray  clothes, 
suitable  for  any  place  or  any  weather,  and 
looked  like  a  grocer's  collection  man  — 
all  save  his  pleasant  face  and  peculiar, 
keen  laughing  eyes.  He  went  everywhere 
and  saw  everything  from  "London  Bridge" 
to  the  Symphony  Circuit. 

Everybody  liked  him.  The  policemen 
in  certain  quarters  grew  to  nod  and  grin 
as  he  passed  along.  He  told  everybody 
frankly  that  he  was  going  for  the  Events, 
was  after  a  position. 

One  day  he  looked  in  on  Daggett  and 
said  — 

"Hello!  Used  my  little  < story'  of  the 
row  up  in  Italy,  didn't  yeh?  I'll  send  in 
my  bill  one  o'  these  days." 

Daggett  gave  him  one  brief  glance. 
"You'll  own  the  paper  yet." 

"I  certainly  will." 

"You  certainly  will  if  cheek  counts," 
growled  the  editor.  He  put  his  head  out 
of  the  stall,  twenty  minutes  later,  and 
moralized  for  the  benefit  of  the  other 
stalls. 

"Damned  if  it  ain't  pathetic  to  see  a 


10  JASON  EDWARDS. 

bright  young  fellah  come  down  here  like 
that  to  conquer  the  city.  We  all  did  it  — 
and  failed — most  of  us.  And  he'll  fail. 
He's  a  bright  fellow,  but  nine  hundred  and 
ninety-nine  out  of  a  thousand,  fail.  If 
youth  only  knew  what  was  before  it,  it 
would  commit  suicide,  or  words  to  that 
effect.  But  it  don't.  It  plunges  along, 
down  every  night,  up  every  morning — I 
swear  it's  tragic." 

There  was  a  dead  silence.  Then  a  voice 
said,  "Say,  Daggett,  moralize  after  two 
o'clock,  won't  you?" 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  before  the  winter 
was  over  Walter  was  put  on  the  list  at  a 
small  salary. 

"  Just  for  your  cursed  impudence,"  Dag 
gett  said  with  a  grin. 

"All  right,"  chirped  Reeves — "  the  same 
kind  of  steam  has  got  to  bring  me  twenty 
dollars — see  ?"  He  ended  with  the  inflec 
tion  of  the  street. 

"Devilish  clever  lad,"  said  Daggett  to 
the  military  editor.  "They  tell  me  he 
knows  the  city  like  his  primer.  I'll  keep 
an  eye  on  him.  The  'old  man'  must 


JASON  EDWARDS.  11 

know  of  the  young  fellow.  He'll  make 
his  mark,  if  he  don't  get  to  living  too 
fast." 

"No  danger  o'  that." 

"Why  so?" 

"He  don't  drink  n'r  smoke." 

"Phew!  You  don't  mean  it!  By  jinks, 
he's  a  sort  of — phenomenon.  Does  he 
write  well?" 

"M — tolerably.  A  little  inclined  to 
soar — you  understand  — '  silver-lining '  — 
6 along  our  pathway'  and  the  like  o'  that — 
but  nothing  organic,  so  to  say.  He  can  be 
cured." 

"We'll  use  that  young  felleh,"  said 
Daggett. 

And  use  him  they  did.  They  unloaded 
all  sorts  of  jobs  upon  him,  but  he  said  noth 
ing,  for  it  was  opportunity  to  show  what 
was  in  him  that  he  wanted  most  of  all. 
He  did  twenty-dollar  jobs  for  ten,  and  did 
his  best.  He  asked  to  be  assigned  to  dif 
ferent  work.  Now  to  the  lectures  and 
theatres,  now  to  the  private  musical-elo- 
cutionals,  and  he  did  some  political  inter 
viewing — in  short,  he  worked  and  studied 


12  JASON  EDWARDS. 

to  round  himself,  to  give  himself  thorough 
information  in  the  city's  life. 

He  made  friends  and  kept  them,  and 
made  mainly  good  ones,  for  the  men  who 
might  have  been  harmful  to  a  weaker  man 
were  of  use  to  him.  He  studied  them 
closely  as  facts.  He  soon  knew  young 
men  of  good  families,  and  he  began  to  go 
out  a  good  deal  at  the  end  of  a  couple  of 
years.  As  his  salary  increased  he  lived 
better  in  proportion,  surrounding  himself 
with  books  and  pictures. 

His  room  became  the  meeting  place  for 
the  more  ambitious  young  newspaper  fel 
lows,  and  Daggett  came  around  once  in  a 
while  to  growl  away  in  a  monotone,  in 
his  interesting  way.  The  young  fellows 
thought  it  quite  an  honor. 

Life  went  on  amazingly  well  for  him. 
At  the  end  of  his  fifth  year  in  Boston,  he 
was  the  "Dramatic  Editor"  on  the  Events 
at  a  good  salary.  He  was  a  man  of  large 
acquaintance,  and  a  universal  belief  in  his 
future  was  expressed  by  Daggett,  "  He's  a 
born  newspaper  man.  If  nothing  happens 
to  him,  he'll  get  too  big  for  Boston." 


JASON  EDWARDS.  13 

"What  do  you  think  may  happen  to 
him?" 

"  Settle  down  into  a  daily  grind  like  you 
and  I,"  said  Daggett  with  an  unusual 
depth  of  feeling  in  his  voice.  Already  he 
began  to  humble  himself  in  the  face  of 
triumphant  youth. 


14  JASON  EDWARDS. 


II. 


ONE  April  day  in  his  fifth  year  in  Bos 
ton  he  had  been  in  the  public  libra 
ry  studying  up  for  a  special  article  in  a 
magazine,  and  stood  at  the  door  looking 
out  at  the  people  streaming  by.  The  pent- 
up  river  of  traffic  in  Boylston  street  ground 
and  thundered  by  him  unnoticed.  He  was 
thinking  of  his  mountain  birth-place — the 
unusual  blue  of  the  sky  brought  it  all  back 
to  him.  He  felt  tired  and  worn  with  the 
city,  and  was  planning  a  long  vacation 
home — when  a  girl  passed! 

Thousands  had  passed  him,  myriads  of 
smiling  girls  and  splendid  women — but 
the  mysterious  had  happened.  The  great, 
wistful  eyes,  the  pre-occupied,  unseeing 
expression  of  the  girl's  face,  and  the  grace 
of  her  step,  stopped  him  as  if  an  invisible 
hand  had  been  placed  upon  his  heart.  He 


JASON  EDWARDS.  15 

marvelled  at  this  astounding  psycholog 
ical  effect,  even  while  his  breath  quick 
ened.  With  a  feeling  almost  of  pain,  he 
stood  irresolute,  and  watched  her  disappear 
among  the  unimpersonal  thousands  of  the 
street. 

"  If  I  were  a  mediaeval  Romeo  instead  of 
a  jaded  critic  of  stage  Romeos  I'd  spring 
to  that  woman's  side  and  ask  her  name 
and  residence."  Ten  minutes  before  he 
wouldn't  have  owned  that  any  face  in  the 
world  could  have  moved  him  so.  For  a 
month  he  carried  that  picture  in  his  mind. 
He  pondered  on  it.  She  was  poor,  that 
was  evident.  She  wore  no  gloves,  and  her 
dress  was  very  simple.  His  reportorial 
eye  had  noted  every  detail.  Her  hat  was 
graceful,  but  cheap,  and  she  had  a  roll  of 
music,  probably  she  was  a  teacher  of  music 
somewhere  in  the  city.  He  haunted  the 
library  at  that  same  hour  day  after  day  till 
he  grew  ashamed  and  furtive  in  action,  all 
to  no  purpose.  But  as  the  weeks  wore  on 
the  sense  of  personal  loss  grew  less  keen, 
and  was  felt  only  when  he  sat  in  his  room 
at  night,  writing  or  dreaming  at  his  desk. 


16  JASON  EDWARDS. 

He  was  thinking  of  that  face  one  even 
ing  in  June,  when  Jerome  Austin,  an  artist 
friend,  came  into  his  room,  in  his  impetu 
ous  way  and  sprawled  out  like  a  lobster  on 
the  couch. 

"  What's  on  with  you  to-night,  old  man  ?" 

"Well,  I'd  looked  forward  to  a  rather 
quiet  time  of  it." 

"  Oh,  bother !  Come  out  with  me.  I've 
a  friend  (one  of  the  penalties  of  having 
friends),  a  girl  graduate  at  the  Conserva 
tory,  who's  going  to  display  her  voice  and 
gown  to-night.  There'll  be  pretty  girls  till 
you  can't  rest,  and  they'll  elocute  and 
cutely  yell "  — 

"Oh,  horrible!"  groaned  Reeves. 

"I  know!  It's  the  state  I'm  in.  If  you 
come,  I'll  introduce  you  to  a  lot  of  girls 
delicious  as  peaches  and  cream." 

Austin  was  always  a  study  to  Reeves, 
and  never  more  so  than  that  night.  As 
they  sat  to  watch  the  exercises  of  the  even 
ing,  he  bubbled  over  with  an  innocent 
sort  of  ribaldry. 

The  beautiful  little  hall  was  like  a  huge 
bouquet  of  flowers,  especially  the  gallery, 


JASON  EDWARDS.  17 

where  the  seats  were  entirely  filled  with 
the  girls  of  the  Conservatory  —  girls  with 
brown  eyes,  girls  with  blue  eyes,  girls 
with  hair  cut  short  and  curling  gracefully 
around  their  heads,  girls  with  bushy  hair 
(very  masculine  and  strong),  girls  of  all 
sorts,  save  dull  girls.  These  ambitious 
little  creatures,  with  their  hopes  and  fears, 
made  the  more  thoughtful  Reeves  ponder 
deeply.  So  bright,  so  eager,  so  resolute, 
what  will  life  be  to  them  ten  years  hence? 
Happy,  they  think.  Full  of  increasing 
care,  Reeves  knew.  But  Austin  kept  on 
irrepressibly,  a  sort  of  chorus  through  the 
performance. 

"  Now  you'll  hear  some  dear  little  creat 
ure — no,  we  have  a  whole  row — ah!  I 
see!  A  fan  drill.  Very  good!  Arms 
and  necks  and  heads  and  pretty  white- 
slippered  toes — that  one  on  the  right  is 
my  friend.  She  mustn't  see  me.  She'd 
laugh.  Now  see  our  heads  wag!  Now 
we'll  display  our  wrists.  Ta-ta,  turn-turn. 
See  the  one  on  the  left — ain't  she  a 
daisy?" 

Reeves   was   looking   at    the    audience, 


18  JASON  EDWARDS. 

when  Austin  said,  "Ah!  Now  we'll  have 
a  song!"  And  he  turned  just  in  time  to 
see  a  girl  slip  from  the  wing  and  bow  to 
the  audience.  It  was  his  wild  bird  of  the 
street!  Her  flushed  face  and  eager  eyes, 
her  slender  figure,  dressed  in  white  or 
pink,  was  glorified  with  a  sort  of  woman's 
pride  mixed  with  an  anticipation  of  tri 
umph,  as  if  she  felt  in  advance  the 
applause  which  really  burst  forth  when 
she  had  finished  her  simple  little  song, 
"Errinnerung,"  by  Brahms. 

Austin  commented  self-containedly : 

"Voice  fair.  Good  feeling — but  what 
eyes?  Did  you  notice  those  eye-lashes? 
They'd  make  a  fortune  for  an  actress. 
Eh?" 

"A  very  pretty  girl,"  said  Reeves,  tak 
ing  refuge  in  a  conventional  tone  and 
phrase. 

"  Pretty !  Say,  I  thought  you  had  some 
judgment.  That  girl's  spicy  as  a  June 
meadow.  Hang  it,  man!  I  wouldn't  be  a 
reporter  for  money.  There's  character  in 
her  face.  How  I'd  like  to  paint  her?  I 
must  get  an  introduction." 


JASON  EDWARDS.  19 

"Take  me  along,  too?"  asked  Reeves 
indifferently — lie  congratulated  himself. 

"Oh,  yes,  certainly — that  is — I'm  sorry 
to  be  obliged  to.  That  moustache  of  yours 
is  such  a  killing  curl,  and  mine  bristles 
like  a  nail-brush.  I  must  paste  it  down 
some  way." 

And  it  was  in  this  way  that  Reeves  met 
her.  She  was  standing  in  the  midst  of  a 
bevy  of  girls,  her  eyes  already  far  off,  a 
faint  smile  on  her  lips. 

"Allie,  dear,  let  me  present  my  friend, 
Mr.  Austin,  and  his  friend,  Mr.  Reeves. 
Miss  Edwards,  Mr.  Reeves  is  a  horrid 
editor,  and  we  must  treat  him  well,  or 
he'll  pounce  on  us.  I'll  bribe  him  with 
a  rose,"  she  said,  detaching  one  from  her 
bouquet. 

"I  have  nothing  but  praise  to  say  of 
your  work,  Miss  Edwards,"  Reeves  said  a 
few  moments  later  as  Miss  Caswell  turned 
away  with  Austin.  "You  are  nearly  done 
here,  I  take  it." 

"Oh,  no.  I'm  only  half-way.  I  gradu 
ate  next  year,  but  I  hope  to  take  a  post 
graduate  course." 


20  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"You're  ambitious  to  sing  on  the  plat 
form,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  I  must  earn  money,  and  there  is 
more  money  to  be  made  that  way." 

"You  are  very  frank  to  say  you're  to 
sing  for  money.  It's  common  to  say,  'I 
love  art  for  art's  sake'." 

"  That  is  very  well  for  those  who  have 
little  need  of  money,  but  I  must  earn 
money.  I  need  it,  and  my  parents  need 
it.  Do  you  think  I  can  succeed?"  she 
asked  eagerly. 

"I  do,  indeed." 

A  little  girl  of  eight  or  thereabouts, 
pulled  at  her  dress,  looking  shyly  at 
Reeves. 

"Allie,  papa's  waitin'." 

"  I  must  go  now.  I'm  very  grateful  for 
your  kind  encouragement." 

"I  am  always  glad  to  speak  such  words 
when  I  can  do  so  honestly,  as  I  can  in  your 
case.  Won't  you  please  let  me  know  when 
you  are  to  sing  again?  I  want  to  hear 
you — and,  pardon  me,  may  I  call  to  see 
you?  I  may  be  able  to  advise  you." 

"You  are  very  kind,  Mr.  Reeves/'  she 


JASON  EDWARDS.  21 

replied  with  a  shadow  on  her  face.  "I 
fear  our  home  is  too  poor — rny  father  is  a 
mechanic." 

"Mine  was  a  farmer/'  he  said  with  a 
smile.  "We  haven't  got  quite  to  the  point 
of  despising  honest  labor." 

"We  live  at  700  Pleasant  Avenue. 
Father  will  be  pleased  to  know  you." 

Reeves  chafed  at  the  formal  words  and 
tones  he  was  forced  to  use  while  looking 
down  into  that  sensitive  face  and  those 
clear  eyes.  He  followed  them  out  into  the 
hall,  and  saw  them  greet  a  middle-aged 
man  with  short,  grey  beard,  who  did  not 
smile  as  he  met  his  daughter,  and  did  not 
speak  of  her  singing. 

Jason  Edwards  had  that  peculiar  reserve 
upon  all  points  of  tenderness  and  affection 
so  characteristic  of  the  New  Englander. 
He  merely  said,  "Who  was  the  man  that 
came  out  behind  you,  Allie — the  one  with 
the  brown  moustache?  I've  seen  him 
before." 

"His  name  is  Reeves,  father.  He  liked 
my  song  very  much." 

"Well,  I  should  think  he  might." 


22  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"Didn't  she  look  lovely,  poppa?" 

"Sh — don't  talk  so  loud,  Linnie.  Peo 
ple  will  hear  you." 

"I  don't  care — she  was  just  lovely." 

Alice  was  thinking  of  that  eager  look  in 
Reeve's  eyes,  of  the  little  vibrant  under 
tone  in  his  voice,  as  he  asked  permission 
to  call.  She  was  almost  frightened  at  the 
idea.  This  editor  of  a  great  paper — for 
she  had  no  very  clear  idea  of  an  editor — 
so  big  and  handsome — Was  he  handsome  ? 
"Yes,  he  was  handsome,"  she  decided.  His 
clear  brown  eyes  and  his  brown  moustache, 
his  brown  hair  brushed  up  from  his  face, 
and  his  fair  complexion,  rose  before  her  as 
something  fine,  honest  and  manly. 

She  turned  to  her  father.  He  had  taken 
her  by  the  wrist  with  his  poor  calloused 
hands,  cracked  and  knotted,  and  grimed 
with  a  half -century's  toil. 

"Oh,  father,  if  my  voice  could  only  give 
you  rest  from  your  work ! " 

In  that  cry  was  her  life  and  aim  and  res 
olution.  If  Reeves  could  have  heard  it,  it 
would  have  added  another  distracting  train 
of  thought  to  those  which  kept  him  awake 


JASON  EDWARDS.  23 

till  twelve  o'clock  that  night  in  his  rooms 
on  Columbus  Avenue. 

Often  before  he  had  been  attracted  by 
women,  had  even  felt  moved  to  win  them, 
but  on  nearer  approach  had  found  them 
only  good  friends  at  best.  Would  this 
girl  continue  to  grow  in  interest  ?  "  If  she 
does  to  any  considerable  extent,"  he  said 
to  himself,  "  I'm  of  no  particular  value  to 
myself  without  her." 

"But  to  think  of  that  beautiful,  reso 
lute,  pure  soul,  full  of  music  and  exalta 
tion,  living  on  Pleasant  Avenue,"  and 
while  puzzling  upon  this,  and  planning 
just  what  to  say  to  her  when  he  should 
call,  he  fell  asleep. 

Life  was  not  the  same  to  him  when  he 
woke  the  next  morning.  He  leaped  out  of 
bed  half  an  hour  earlier  to  do  some  special 
work,  and  as  he  moved  about,  he  sang  so 
merrily  that  the  lodger  above  pounded 
warningly  on  the  floor  with  his  shoe-heel. 


24  JASON  EDWARDS. 


III. 


IT  was  about  five  o'clock  of  a  stifling  hot 
day   on   Pleasant   Avenue.     Ironically 
bitter,    the   name    of    the    street   seemed 
now,  like  many  another  old-time  name  in 
Boston. 

The  sun  had  gone  out  of  it,  but  the 
heat  still  pulsed  from  the  pavements  and 
breathed  from  the  doors  and  open  windows 
of  the  four-story  brick  and  wooden  build 
ings,  rising  like  solid  walls  on  each  side  of 
the  stream  of  human  life  which  filled  the 
crevasse  with  its  slow  motion. 

Children,  ragged,  dirty,  half-naked  and 
ferocious,  swarmed  up  and  down  the  fur 
nace-like  street,  swore  and  screamed  in 
high-pitched,  unnatural,  animal-like  voices, 
from  which  all  childish  music  was  lost. 
Frowzy  women  walking  with  a  gait  of 
utter  weariness,  aged  women,  bent  and 


JASON  EDWARDS.  25 

withered,  and  young  women  soon  to  bring 
other  mouths  and  tongues  and  hands  into 
this  frightful  struggle,  straggled  along  the 
side-walks,  laden  with  parcels,  pitifully 
small,  filled  with  food. 

Other  women  and  old  people  leaned 
from  the  open  windows  to  get  a  breath  of 
cooler  air,  frowns  of  pain  on  their  faces, 
while  in  narrow  rooms  foul  and  crowded, 
invalids  tortured  by  the  deafening  screams 
of  the  children,  and  the  thunder  of  passing 
teams  and  cars,  and  unable  to  reach  the 
window  to  escape  the  suffocating  heat  and 
smell  of  the  cooking,  turned  to  the  wall, 
dumbly  praying  for  death  to  end  their 
suffering. 

If  a  young  soul  from  the  quiet  of  sub 
urban  life,  or  a  visitor  from  the  country, 
had  found  himself  in  the  midst  of  these 
streets  and  these  people,  he  would  have 
trembled  with  fear  and  horror.  It  would 
have  seemed  to  him  like  a  hideous  dream 
of  hell,  but  the  postman,  making  his  last 
round,  whistled  as  he  threaded  his  way 
amidst  the  obstructions  of  the  pavements 
— whistled  and  swore  good-naturedly,  as 


26  JASON  EDWARDS. 

the  eager  children  crowded  upon  him.  He 
walked  briskly  and  with  alert  and  pleasant 
eyes,  his  bag  on  his  left  shoulder,  his  left 
hand  filled  with  badly  written  letters. 

Through  this  street,  moving  toward  its 
better  quarters,  Alice  Edwards  and  Reeves 
were  making  their  way  slowly,  oppressed 
by  the  heat  and  impeded  by  the  riotous 
play  of  the  children  and  the  grimy  babes 
rolling  on  the  pavements  before  the  doors. 

They  both  moved  forward  with  an  air 
which  plainly  showed  they  were,  like  the 
postman,  accustomed  to  see  this.  They 
saw  it  but  saw  it  as  one  of  the  inevitable 
conditions.  The  children  knew  them,  and 
many  spoke  to  them  familiarly,  but  not 
saucily. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Reeves!" 

"Hello,  Alice!" 

"That  your  sweetheart?" 

"  You  dry  up !  He'll  put  you  into  the 
paper,"  said  a  woman  with  the  usual  shawl 
thrown  over  her  head,  in  spite  of  the  heat 
(a  relic  of  barbarism  in  dress) . 

Alice  was  dressed  in  white,  such  as  she 
usually  wore  when  singing,  and  she  looked 


JASON  EDWARDS.  27 

like  a  lost  wild  dove  dropped  into  this  hor 
rible  crevasse ;  and  in  her  eyes  there  was  a 
look  of  sorrowful  wisdom  which  showed 
she  was  not  unacquainted  with  vice  and 
misery,  though  untainted  by  it. 

They  walked  in  silence  mainly,  save  as 
they  greeted  the  people  they  met.  Reeves 
looked,  as  usual,  shrewd  and  kindly,  but 
under  his  drooping  moustache  there  was 
the  line  of  his  lips  to  tell  how  much  he  felt 
the  pity  of  all  this  degradation.  He  was  a 
stalwart  figure,  and  set  off  well  the  slender 
woman  beside  him.  He  was  dressed,  as 
usual,  with  uncommon  care,  wearing  the 
conventional  Prince  Albert  coat,  but  reliev 
ing  himself  a  little  of  the  discomfort  by 
leaving  it  unbuttoned. 

"This  dodging  the  babes  on  the  pave 
ment  makes  me  think  of  walking  in  the 
country  after  a  rain-storm,  when  the  toads 
are  thick.  In  the  thousands  of  the  city, 
these  little  mites  of  humanity  have  no 
more  significance  than  toads.  They  lie 
here,  squat  in  the  way  uncared  for,  and 
unlovely.  What  a  childhood  to  look  back 
upon." 


28  JASON  EDWARDS. 

They  turned  in  at  last  at  one  of  the 
cave-like  apertures  opening  upon  the  nar 
row  walk,  and  passed  into  a  hall  which  led 
straight  through  to  the  foul-smelling  yard 
and  alley  behind. 

There  were  two  families  on  each  floor, 
and  as  the  doors  were  open,  the  smells  of 
cooking  food  were  mingled  into  an  inde 
scribable  hot  stench — boiled  beef,  onions, 
cabbage,  fried  pork  and  the  smell  of  vile 
coffee.  Babies  were  squaling,  loud-voiced 
women,  worried  with  their  cares  and  bad- 
tempered  from  weariness,  were  scolding 
and  slapping  the  children  who  ran  in  and 
out  with  a  prodigious  clatter,  and  shrieking 
and  squalling. 

Reeves  and  Alice  looked  into  each  oth 
er's  faces  with  a  significant  glance,  and 
mounted  the  stairs,  dodging  the  children 
that  were  sliding  down  the  banister  and 
leaping  across  the  landing. 

"Did  you  ever  notice  how  little  heat 
affects  children,  Alice?"  inquired  Reeves, 
as  they  paused  at  the  top  stair. 

"They  are  like  salamanders.  See  their 
wonderful  activity  in  spite  of  the  heat." 


JASON  EDWARDS.  29 

"Please  consider  me  a  martyr  to  beauty/' 
he  said,  as  he  took  off  his  hat  and  flung 
back  his  coat.  "I'll  wear  my  straw  hat 
and  light  suit  next  time,  if  it  spoils  my 
chances  for  the  presidency." 

Alice  smiled.  "  I  didn't  ask  you  to  wear 
that." 

Reeves  caught  a  grinning  boy  by  the 
shoulder,  as  he  was  trying  to  slip  past  him. 
"  See  here,  Patsy,  did  you  leave  that  bana 
na-skin  on  the  stairs  ?  I  nearly  broke  my 
neck  last  Wednesday,"  he  exclaimed  to 
Alice. 

The  room  they  entered  was  the  usual 
living-room  of  the  average  mechanic, 
except  that  it  had  a  carpet  and  piano,  as 
if  it  laid  claim  to  the  name  of  parlor.  But 
the  table,  partly  spread  for  supper,  told 
that  it  was  also  the  dining-room.  The 
furniture  was  of  very  humble  sort,  and  was 
a  peculiar  mixture  of  old-fashioned  pieces 
and  bargains  at  the  shoddy  furniture-rooms 
of  the  city. 

The  carpet  on  the  floor  was  bright- 
colored.  The  curtains  were  very  neat  and 
clean,  and  the  whole  effect  was  of  tasteful 


30  JASON  EDWARDS. 

economy,  but  not  comfort.  The  windows 
of  the  side,  the  only  windows,  looked  out 
upon  another  similar  tenement,  across  a 
narrow  side  street,  along  which  boomed 
and  thundered  passing  teams  loaded  with 
heavy  plates  of  iron,  or  with  immense  flap 
ping  loads  of  lumber.  Venders  of  fruit 
were  crying  loudly  and  unmusically.  It 
was  very  close  and  unwholesome,  and 
Reeves  drew  a  sigh  of  pain  as  he  glanced 
about  the  room  as  Alice  sat  down  on  the 
piano  stool  in  a  meditative  position. 

A  little  girl  peeped  in  at  the  door  and 
then  ran  away,  and  Mrs.  Edwards,  a  gray- 
haired  woman  with  a  tired,  patient  face, 
came  to  the  door  which  led  into  the  kitchen 
and  closed  it  softly,  leaving  the  two  young 
people  alone,  while  she  suffered  a  martyr 
dom  of  heat  within  the  small  cooking 
room. 

It  was  a  strange  place  for  a  wooing,  one 
would  say.  From  the  street  foul  odors 
and  the  boom  of  travel.  Overhead  some 
one  was  tramping  heavily.  In  the  hall 
the  children  fought  and  screamed,  and 
clattered  up  and  down  the  stairs.  That 


JASON  EDWARDS.  31 

they  could  sit  and  talk  with  such  sur 
roundings  was  sorrowful  evidence  that  it 
was  habitual,  and  to  some  degree  unnoticed. 

Reeves  also  sank  into  a  chair  with  a 
sigh,  and  said,  "Another  recital  like  that 
would  lay  me  out  in  the  morgue.  That 
tall  girl  that  punished  Schumann — well, 
let  that  pass  —  and  let's  come  back  to  the 
subject  in  hand.  That's  all  you'll  prom 
ise  me,  is  it?"  he  said,  in  a  tone  that 
implied  he  had  returned  to  an  interrupted 
conversation. 

"Yes,"  answered  Alice  gravely. 

"To  marry  me — some  time." 

"Yes— ain't  that  enough?"  A  hint  of 
a  smile. 

"'No,  it's  too — indefinite.  Enough — to 
a  man  who  wants  you  and  the  earth!  I 
begin  to  see  there  is  a  radical  difference 
between  men  and  women — at  least, 
between  you  and  me.  Now  just  think 
how  indefinite  that  is — some  time!  Why 
not  put  a  limit  and  bound  to  it  ?  Why  not 
say  next  Fourth  of  July?" 

She  laughed,  but  shook  her  head. 

"  Well,  say  Thanksgiving — Christmas — 


32  JASON  EDWARDS. 

Ah! — now  I'm  getting  at  it!  It  seems 
now  I'm  going  to  make  a  tremendous  sac 
rifice —  come  now,  say  a  year  from  to-day." 

Alice  spoke  slowly,  with  a  faint  smile  on 
her  lips,  her  eyes  cast  down. 

"Well,  I'll  think  of  it." 

"What's  that?" 

"I  said  I'd  think  of  it." 

"Alice,  you  can  be  exasperating  on 
occasion.  To  think  of  the  sermons  and 
graduating  exercises  I've  endured,  to  hear 
you  sing!  To  think  of  the  lemonade  and 


ice-cream" 


"Walter!" 

"All  this  haf  I  endured  mit  a  patient 
shrug,"  acted  Reeves,  turning  out  his  palms. 
"All  the  year,  only  to  be  told  to  wait 
another  year,"  he  groaned. 

"How  can  you  make  light  of  it?"  said 
Alice,  severely,  looking  up  at  him. 

"Light  of  it!"  cried  he  in  astonishment. 
"Do  I  act  like  a  man  making  light  of  it  ?" 
He  rose  and  paced  once  across  the  room, 
and  said  gravely,  "Alice,  this  is  absurd. 
Look  at  it  from  my  stand-point  a  moment. 
Here  I  am,  good  salary — land — a  little 


JASON  EDWARDS.  33 

railway  stock — my  eye  on  a  dove  of  a 
cottage  in  Meadow  View — Queen  Anne 
piazza"  — 

" I  know,  but"  — 

"But  what?" 

"Why — I'm  happy  now"  — 

"Well,  I  ain't." 

"That  is,"  she  hastened  to  explain,  "I 
have  my  music,  and  I  have  father  and 
mother  and  Linnie — why  can't  you  be 
patient?" 

"I  am.    Job  ain't  a  circumstance  to  me." 

"Let  me  study  another  year"  — 

"Can't  think  of  it!" 

"I  love  my  music.  I  want  to  do  some 
thing  in  that.  I  want  to  earn  my  own  liv 
ing — I  must  help  my  people"  — 

"All  I  have  is  theirs,"  said  Reeves 
solemnly. 

"No,  it  ain't,"  she  cried  firmly.  "I  want 
money,  all  my  own — that's  what  I've  stud 
ied  for,  and  I  can't  be  dependent." 

"Oh,  these  modern  women!"  groaned 
Reeves. 

"You  got  your  place  by  your  own 
work/'  she  continued  in  the  same  tone, 


34  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"and  I  want  to  show  how  much  I  can 
do"  — 

"  You  mean  how  little." 

"I  mean  how  much/'  she  repeated,  with 
a  touch  of  silencing  indignation.  "I'm 
proud  of  you  because  you've  got  where  you 
have,  hy  your  own  merit.  Now  let  me  see 
if  I  can't  do  for  myself  and  my  parents 
what" — 

"  Nonsense !  I  can  do  work  enough  for 
two.  I  don't  want  you  to  work." 

"I  know  you  don't,  Walter,  but"  — 

"But  what?" 

"  I  want  to  work.  Don't  you  see  ?  I'm 
happier  in  my  work.  Let  me  have  my 
freedom  another"  — 

"Freedom!"  cried  Reeves  in  vast  aston 
ishment.  "Well,  now  that  heads  me  off! 
As  if  you  couldn't  do  as  you  please  after 
marrying  me." 

The  girl,  finding  herself  driven  to  give 
an  explanation  which  was  impossible, 
changed  her  method  of  attack. 

"You  called  me  the  modern  woman?" 

"  Yes,  for  lack  of  a  better  characteriza 
tion/'  he  replied. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  35 

"Well,"  she  laughed  mockingly,  "the 
modern  woman  doesn't  marry  young." 

"The  modern  woman  had  better  look 
out,  or  she'll  get  out  of  the  habit  and  not 
marry  at  all,"  grumbled  Eeeves.  Then 
changing  his  mode  of  attack,  he  rose  and 
closed  the  door,  and  returning  took  his 
chair  over  toward  her,  and  seated  himself 
facing  her. 

"Say,  Alice,  do  you  know  I'm  getting 
old — fast?  I'm  getting  too  near  thirty. 
See  the  gray  hairs  on  my  head,  eh?" 

Alice  put  out  her  hand  and  pushed  her 
fingers  up  through  his  thick  hair — a 
caressing  movement. 

"Gray!  There  isn't  a  gray  hair  in  it — 
and  if  there  was" — she  hesitated. 

"  Out  with  it." 

"It  would  be  due  to"  — 

"Dissipation,  eh?" 

"I  didn't  say  that." 

"No,  but  you  meant  it." 

"I  didn't— I  meant"  — 

"Now  don't  try  to  switch  off  on  Back 
Bay  parties  and  five  o'clock  teas.  It's  due 
to  the  suffering  incident  to  going  to  church 


36  JASON  EDWARDS. 

and  to  recitals  to  hear  you  sing  one  poor 
little  hymn"  — 

"Do  you  good,"  she  laughed.  "You 
wouldn't  go  to  church  at  all  otherwise." 

"  By  the  way,  I  heard  Mrs.  Hoi  way  was 
thinking  of  taking  you  up." 

"I'm  not  going  to  be  taken  up  by  any 
such  person,"  said  Alice,  "She's  a  coarse, 
ignorant  woman.  She  asked  me  to-day  if 
Wa-agner  wasn't  French ! " 

"  She's  pretty  dense,  that's  a  fact.  About 
the  worst  Philistines  I  know  are  the  peo 
ple  who  think  all  the  rest  of  the  world  are 
Philistines." 

They  were  silent  a  moment,  Alice  stand 
ing  with  her  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"But  to  return  to  the  discussion,"  began 
Reeves,  after  a  few  moments. 

Alice  withdrew  her  hand  and  began  tak 
ing  off  her  hat. 

"I  won't  argue  any  more  with  you. 
Now  you  sit  down  and  keep  still  while  I 
help  mother." 

"But  I"  — 

Alice  hummed  a  little  tune,  and  then 
turning,  asked  innocently — 


JASON  EDWARDS.  37 

"What  were  you  about  saying?" 

"I'll  go  home  and  write  a  ferocious  edi 
torial  on  the  modern  woman — attacking 
the  whole  theory"  — 

"Do,  and  I'll  add  another  year  to  your 
probation,"  said  Alice  sweetly.  "I  must 
teach  you  patience,  or  you'll  be  a  tyrant." 

Reeves  groaned  in  mock  despair.  "Oh, 
that  I  were  born  so  late !  Oh,  for  the  soft 
and  yielding  females  of  romance!  They 
did  nothing  but  faint  in  their  lovers' 
arms — but  these  modern  women"  — 

Alice  seated  herself  at  the  piano  and 
touched  a  few  chords.  Mrs.  Edwards 
opened  the  door  softly,  but  seeing  Reeves 
step  to  Alice's  side  and  put  his  hand 
on  her  shoulder,  she  discreetly  withdrew 
again  to  her  direful  hot-box. 

Alice,  feeling  the  hand  of  her  lover, 
ceased  to  play,  and  looked  up  to  see  a  new 
expression  on  his  face. 

"Lovers  always  enjoy  telling  each  other 
what  they  thought  and  felt  the  first  time 
they  saw  each  other" — 

"Well,  go  on,"  smiled  the  girl. 

"I   never   could   say   just    what   I   felt 


38  JASON  EDWARDS. 

when  I  saw  you,  but  to-day  I  clipped  a 
poem  that  comes  as  near  to  it  as  any 
words  can. 

"Oh,  read  it  to  me  —  do!"  pleaded 
Alice. 

"How  do  you  know  it  will  please 
you?" 

"I  don't." 

"  Yes,  you  do,  or  you  wouldn't  ask  for 
it." 

He  stood  now  looking  down  at  her, 
seated  by  the  piano,  her  hands  in  her  lap, 
her  eyes  upturned  while  Keeves  read — 

"  She  passed  me  on  the  street 
And  saw  me  not !     .     .     .     . 
As  some  sweet  singer,  safe 
Near  its  swaying  nest 
Beside  some  half-hid  stream 
Far  in  the  wooded  west, 
With  pure,  untroubled,  child-like  eyes, 
She  walked  in  happy  dream, 
Of  her  own  wonder  and  surprise. 

"  Knowing  not  vice  nor  hunger's  ways  ; 
In  girlhood's  pure  and  wistful  thought, 
She  passed  me — but  I  caught 
The  glorious  beauty  of  her  face ! 


JASON  EDWARDS.  39 

Beneath  her  garments  perfume-fraught 
She  moved  with  such  a  splendid  grace, 
I  knew  a  strain  of  music  passed  — 
Her  buoyant  stepping  held  me  fast ! " 

As  Keeves  read  this,  Alice  took  the  hand 
which  was  on  her  shoulder,  and  laid  her 
cheek  upon  it.  The  tears  came  in  her 
eyes,  and  when  he  had  finished,  she  said  in 
a  low  voice — 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  were  worthy  that  poem." 

"You  are  worthy  it,"  said  Reeves  tend 
erly,  locking  his  hands  under  her  chin,  and 
kissing  her  upturned  face." 

"Oh,  no.     It  is  an  ideal — it  is  not  me." 

"But  you  see  that's  what  you  are — the 
<not-me'." 

A  knock  on  the  door  brought  a  grimace 
to  his  face,  and  Alice,  rising,  said,  "Come 
in."  A  large  and  flabby  Irish  woman 
entered,  and  seeing  Reeves  and  Alice  alone, 
professed  the  most  voluble  contrition. 

"Bad  luuk  to  the  sowl  av  me!  It's  a 
bloody  thief  I  am  to  come  stalin'  in — but 
Murtagh'll  be  home  sune,  an'  it's  a  cu-up  o' 
tay  he'll  be  nadin'  ?  An'  is  Mrs.  Edwards 
in?" 


40  JASON  EDWARDS. 

Mrs.  Edwards  hearing  the  high-pitched 
voice  of  her  neighbor,  who  "borrowed 
things",  came  in,  greeting  Mr.  Reeves  in 
her  placid  way,  in  the  midst  of  the  never- 
ending  clatter  of  Mrs.  Murtagh's  tongue. 

"Wull  you  loan  me  the  lavin'  o'  tay, 
Mrs.  Edwards?  I  have  a  cu-up." 

Mrs.  Edwards  took  the  cup  with  an  air 
of  long-suffering  patience,  and  returned  to 
the  kitchen. 

"It's  the  warst  I  cud  do,  to  be  disturbin' 
two  swatehaarts  sittin'  like  du-uves  in  a 
nist"— 

"There,  there,  Mrs.  Murtagh,"  said  Alice. 
"Never  mind — you  didn't  mean"  — 

"Mane,t  is  it?  How  cud  I  knaw,  an'  the 
dure  an  inch  thick,  and  the  babby  a  squall- 
in'  like  murther?" 

"Never  mind  that,  madam,"  said  Reeves, 
trying  his  hand  at  staying  the  torrent. 

"D'ye  hear  that  now?  Madam,  sez  he! 
Good  luuk  to  ye  f'r  that! " 

Reeves  resorted  to  stratagem.  Going 
over  to  the  door,  he  said,  "  I  think  I  hear 
Teddy  fighting  again." 

"Fightin'  is  he?     Mother  o'  God!     That 


JASON  EDWARDS.  41 

bye's  the  divil  himself.  Good  luuk  to  ye, 
darlint !  It's  dancin'  at  y'r  weddin'  I'll  be 
doin'  till  ye'll  think  it's  bechune  sixteen 
an'  twinty  I  am."  And  with  much  palaver 
she  thanked  Mrs.  Edwards  and  withdrew 
with  the  cup  of  tea. 

"  Heavens  and  earth !  What  a  scourge ! " 
said  Reeves  with  a  sigh. 

"Oh,  she  isn't  bad.  She  has  a  good 
heart.  But  there  are  people  in  our  block 
that  are  dreadful.  And  it  is  so  hard  to 
escape  them  in  the  crowded  city. 

Reeves  shuddered,  and  said  with  a  ten 
der  cadence  in  his  voice,  "My  poor  little 
girl.  Let  me  take  you  out  of  this." 

"And  leave  my  parents  in  it?"  she 
asked  in  a  tone  which  stopped  his  mouth. 
His  face  darkened  over  the  problem.  He 
dared  not  push  the  matter  further. 

"Well,  I  must  be  going  back  to  the 
office.  I'm  expected  to  do  an  anti-poverty 
lecture  to-night." 

"What  kind  of  a  lecture?" 

"Why,  this  abolition  of  poverty  idea, 
started  by  Henry  George — perfectly  absurd 
idea."  Alice  looked  thoughtful. 


42  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"I  wish  the  idea  wasn't  so  absurd.  I 
don't  understand  why  poverty  should  be 
so  persistent  in  the  world.  Do  you?" 

Eeeves  was  profoundly  touched  by  her 
words  and  manner.  He  hesitated  and 
finally  said,  "Come  to  think  of  it,  it  is 
more  absurd  to  think  the  abolishing  of 
poverty  absurd.  Some  way  I  haven't  yet 
seen  where  the  laugh  comes  in.  I've  been 
thinking  a  good  deal  on  these  social  ques 
tions  lately,  and  writing  a  good  deal  in  a 
way."  He  mused  again  for  a  moment, 
his  eyes  on  the  floor,  his  hat  in  his  hand. 
He  took  another  bit  of  paper  from  his 
pocket. 

"The  air  is  full  of  revolt  against  things 
as  they  are.  I  don't  know  why,  some 
thing  has  brought  them  up.  Here's  some 
thing  I  wrote  while  standing  on  Brooklyn 
Bridge  the  other  day,  looking  down  on 
New  York.  'Over  me  surged  and  swung 
those  giant  cables,  etched  against  the  sky, 
delicate  as  cobwebs.  Under  my  feet  that 
marvel  of  man,  the  bridge  itself.  I  stood 
there,  looking  down  on  that  lava-like  flood 
of  bricks  and  mortar  called  New  York, 


JASON  EDWARDS.  43 

cracked  and  seamed  and  piled  into  hideous 
forms,  without  grace  or  charm.  I  saw 
men  rushing  to  and  fro  there  in  those 
gloomy  scenes,  like  ants  in  the  scoria  of 
a  volcano.  I  saw  pale  women  sewing  in 
dens  reeking  with  pestilence  and  throbbing 
with  heat.  I  saw  myriads  of  homes  where 
the  children  could  play  only  on  the  roof 
or  in  the  street.  Whole  colonies  of  hope 
less  settlers,  sixty  feet  from  the  pavement. 
And  I  said,  man  has  invented  a  thousand 
new  ways  of  producing  wealth,  but  not 
one  for  properly  distributing  it.  I  don't 
understand  the  problem,  but  it  must  be 
solved.  Somebody  will  solve  it."3 

He  crumpled  the  paper  away  in  his 
pocket.  "Well,  don't  mind  my  firing  an 
editorial  at  you,  will  you?"  He  held  out 
his  hand. 

"  Good-by,  my  liege  lady,"  he  said  in 
mock  homage,  kissing  her  fingers.  Alice 
smiled  faintly  at  his  playfulness,  and  after 
he  had  gone  out,  turned  to  her  mother 
wearily. 

"  And  he  feels  it,  too.  Oh,  isn't  it  ter 
rible  to  be  poor,  mother?" 


44  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"Yes,  Allie,"  said  Mrs.  Edwards  with 
quiet  pathos;  "but  I've  got  used  to  it — I 
don't  expect  anything  else  now — I  don't 
care  s'  much  f'r  myself,  but  I  do  want  to 
see  my  children  saved  from  it." 

"Oh,  how  sweet  it  must  be  to  be  free 
from  the  fears  of  poverty,"  cried  the  girl. 
"To  feel  that  you  don't  need  to  scrimp  and 
pinch,  and  turn  dresses,  and  dye  feathers, 
and  wear  old  shoes,  and  pinch  every  cent 
you  have.  I  wonder  how  it  would  seem 
to  feel  that  food  would  come  when  you 
needed  it.  And  then  to  be  free  to  study. 
Oh,  that  would  be  heaven ! " 

Mrs.  Edwards  was  moving  about  the 
room  with  that  mechanical  persistency  the 
never-resting  laborer  acquires.  The  impas 
sioned  girl  saw  this  at  last,  and  rising, 
approached  her  and  put  her  arms  around 
the  mother's  waist.  "How  patient  you 
are,  mother." 

"I  have  to  be,  dearie.  It  wouldn't  do 
no  good  to  cry  an'  take  on.  I've  got  over 
that." 

"  Mother,  are  there  any  happy  people  in 
the  world — any  working  people,  I  mean? 


JASON  EDWARDS.  45 

Are  they  all  cross  and  tired  and  worried 
and  full  of  care,  as  we  are  here?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Allie;  but  when  I  was  a 
girl  back  in  Derry,  it  seemed  as  if  most 
everybody  was  fore-handed  and  had  enough 
t'  eat.  But  now  it  seems  as  if  everybody 
was  strugglin'  f  r  dear  life.  It  really  does. 
But  mercy  sakes !  What  started  us  off  on 
this  strain,  I  wonder.  We  mustn't  let 
Jason  come  in  and  find  us  like  this.  Now 
you  go  wash  up  an'  change  your  dress  or 
put  on  an  apron,  an'  get  the  things  on.  I 
wonder  where  Linnie  is." 

"She's  out  on  the  street,  waiting  for 
father,  I  guess." 

Mrs.  Edwards  stopped  and  looked  more 
concerned  than  she  had  before. 

"It  scares  me  to  have  her  growin'  up  on 
the  street  so,  but  I  can't  see  no  way  to 
help  it.  Things  wan't  so  bad  when  you 
was  little." 

Linnie's  voice  was  heard  below.  "Pop 
pa's  come !  Poppa's  come !  " 

Jason  Edwards  entered  the  street  door 
covered  with  grime  and  dust  of  a  machine- 
shop,  a  small  tin  pail  in  his  hand.  An 


46  JASOX  *MlM/,v 

I  Inn  in  romiti'.'  h.'in  tin-  oppoMt,-  dinv- 
lion.  Mid  to  liiin  \\itli  ,i  OUriOUl  nilh  Ottaij 
••  I  in  out  ol'  a  job 

•    ! 

li  .  N  '\.«  -,1ml  do\\  n   t"r   t\\o 
inun  I    •.•    III.UIIIN  •  •  r    |M.M|IH-- 

••  I'm   .still    \\orkm',   ;it    tin*  it«l 

tlirir  Mrin;  H  '  of    t.  n  |.,-r  «vnt.  ain't 

likri\  to  IT  ohangtd,  ixotpl  |Q  ton 

fh|    tlh'\'ll    rut     \f    »lo\\n.    l>r    (Job,    till 
tlu'v's   n;i\\  thin'    lit't.      All    tli.-N    \\.int    B 

ii.M»  thr  rint  on  us.  an'  \\v\\  IK-  in 
tlh 

'h-s'll    do    that     1 

M    li«-    lu-iMii    rliiuhin'..'    tli«-    iteil 
\\a\,    l.iuuii'    runnin-    ;ili«vul    to    .union- 

liiiL1.  A.N  lu1  \\»int  in,  lu-  made  a 
pout'i-t'ul  clTort  to  ronrcal  thr  i-loom  and 
hittrrni'vs  \\hirh  was  in  liis  luvirt. 

Linnir  in  his  haml-       "  M\ 
Ain't  wr  L-.i'ttin'  1  M-'lu  i .  -(  ,  ir 

nu-  slip's  gTOWin1  tatu-r  in  spiu-  v>f  thr 
heat-  > 

As  ho  hun^;  up  his  roat   ami   hat,  l.innir 
followed  him  about,  talking.     *4Uh,  poppa. 


9BWA&9&  47 


I      m:,,|,:    ||,,:    I,,,    M.I   -:     :.ll     |,Y     ..MM,  II 

•  |"|M'I  i..  i|.  m,,  |  i.  niy=tenty  Wt,  hardly, 

.h.l    -,.....   m.-MMMftf11 

I    i,   ,'  my      I.  Hi.'-     §§§k!         I     '!""''       1  •-""W 

li..w    u.'.l    I  ..  |, 

jfOOj      "".llM     , 

\,,.i.  .,),.  ,,.,.;.., 

Ultli     A!.-   .    .    :nnl     I 

I  Iflfit  '      ITftfB«d  AH§§, 

i  -!••  M.I    miltd   ^htli  r§lllflg  up  his 

««,    "Aha,  new  we're  gettin'  to  it, 

There  e&a't  nothing  g§  §&  in  thi§  ward 

v.'i..ni  Mi^  8right§ye8  ka§win9  all 

,1    "  I,.       u.  nt      .„,{ 

aJ4,  {i.iii  ,.]...,.,  ugly= 
i  -iunci,  dear,   ni   have  te 


\vhat'§  di§§Jplifte?M  asked  Linnie 

,,:1ntlV,   v,.ll.   lln     blliflg    ",ll,.  l.-.n  •„,    :,   .,.„  .: 

«   .....  -     I'"    "I""       I"     'I"        '"      1' 


1  1»'<  in  teaebidg  little  girl*  &§t  t§  tell  total 
•  -"I    i  ^b§§lf  and  to  keep  Ir§m  talking 
LI-   i  «  4dy  Murtagb,11 
(•»»,,,  .i..i,,-i  «ttty  t§  learn  what  diset 
but  got  the  §§tnb  §yt  &!  the 


48  JASON  EDWARDS. 

case  under  the  mirror,  and  drew  a  chair  up 
facing  the  window.  "I'm  all  ready/'  she 
cried,  as  Edwards  came  out  of  the  kitchen, 
wiping  his  face  and  arms.  He  took  his 
seat  in  a  chair,  and  put  Linnie  astride  his 
knees,  in  an  attitude  which  was  a  familiar 
one,  and  she  chattered  away  childishly. 

"  Ain't  you  glad  you've  got  a  little  girl 
to  comb  your  hair  when  you're  tired?" 

"I  guess  so.  Without  my  girls  I  guess 
we'd  surrender,  wouldn't  we,  mother?" 

As  Mrs.  Edwards  nodded,  he  went  on  in 
the  same  tone,  "But  you're  gettin'  to  be 
such  a  great  big  girl,  I'm  afraid  you  won't 
do  this  very  long." 

"Yes,  I  will;  I'll  do  this  just  as  long — 
till  I'm  as  big  as  Alice — yes,  longer," 
asserted  Linnie  stoutly. 

"Oh,  you'll  be  goin'  off  and  gettin'  mar 
ried  one  o'  these  days." 

"I  won't  neither,"  said  Linnie  pouting. 
"Now  you  stop  talkin'  that  way.  I  ain't 
goin'  to  get  married  'tall." 

"Don't  be  too  sure  of  that." 

"I'm  goin'  to  sit  here  every  night  just 
as  long  as  I  live,  and  comb  your  hair  for 


JASON  EDWARDS.  49 

you,  and  make  you  sing  songs  for  me. 
There!"  she  ended,  patting  a  curl  in  his 
hair  with  her  little  palm. 

Edwards  rose,  and  Linnie  put  the  comb 
back  in  the  case. 

"Well,  Jennie,"  he  began  in  a  grave 
and  tender  tone,  "how  goes  it  with  you 
to-day?  Seems  terrible  hot  here  to-night. 
Why  don't  you  have  the  door  open?  I 
swear,  it's  worse  than  the  shop." 

"It  always  is,  Jason,  when  the  wind's 
in  the  south-west.  But  I  can't  stand  the 
noise,  so  I  keep  the  door  shut.  Sometimes 
it  seems  's  if  I  couldn't  bear  it  another 
minute.  But  I  keep  goin',  by  thinkin' 
how  much  worse  some  other  folks  is 
off." 

"Yes,  that's  about  the  only  way  to  be 
patient,"  said  Jason  bitterly.  "  Makes  me 
almost  wild,  when  I  get  to  thinkin'  of  it 
sometimes." 

He  went  to  the  sofa  and  dropped  heavily 
upon  it.  Linnie  got  a  fan  from  the  wall, 
and  sat  down  to  fan  his  face.  Alice  took 
her  place  by  the  head  of  the  sofa  and 
caressed  his  forehead. 


50  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"  Poor  poppa !  It's  terrible  to  see  you  so 
tired.  Was  it  very  hard  to-day?" 

"Just  one  eternal  tread-mill/'  Edwards 
said.  "Never  a  day  off.  I'm  glad  I  don't 
believe  in  another  world,"  he  said,  after  a 
pause.  "I  shouldn't  be  sure  of  rest,  if  I 


was." 


Mrs.  Edwards  was  shocked  almost  out  of 
her  slow,  placid  way. 

"Hush,  Jason!  It's  wicked  to  talk  like 
that.  It  don't  do  no  good  to  talk  like 
that — 'specially  'fore  the  children.  Come 
an'  eat  something  now." 

"What  has  happened  to-day,  father?" 
said  Alice  quietly.  "  You  haven't  been  so 
discouraged  for  a  long  time." 

"  Oh,  I'm  hot  and  worn  out,"  he  replied 
evasively. 

"It  does  seem  dreadful  hot  for  June," 
said  Mrs.  Edwards,  who  was  seated  at  the 
table,  waiting  for  the  rest  to  come  and  eat. 

Edwards  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  his 
face  softened. 

"June?  What  a  lot  that  word  means  to 
the  folks  in  the  country ! "  He  sat  up  and 
looked  around  with  a  darkening  face, 


JASON  EDWARDS.  51 

"Down  here,  in  this  cursed  alley,  we  don't 
know  anything  about  June,  except  it 
makes  our  tenement  hotter  an'  sicklier 
an' — w'y,  to-night,  girls,  if  we  was  only 
back  at  the  old  farm,  we'd  see  the  mead 
ows  knee-deep  in  grass,  and  the  world 
would  smell  like  a  posy-bed.  We  didn't 
look  forward  to  jest  this  kind  o'  thing 
when  we  left  Derry  twenty  years  ago,  did 
we,  mother?" 

"  No,  Jason ;  but  it  ain't  no  use,  as  I  see, 
to  worry." 

"  Oh,  poppa,  you  promised  you'd  take  us 
back  up  there  —  didn't  he,  Allie?  I'm  so 
tired  of  these  hot  streets." 

Edwards  put  his  arm  around  her.  "I'm 
afraid  there's  no  vacation  for  us  this  year, 
Linnie.  The  struggle  gets  harder  and 
harder.  Oh,  I'm  too  tired  to  eat,  Jennie," 
he  ended,  sinking  back  on  the  sofa. 

"Come  and  try  to  drink  a  cup  of  tea, 
father,"  urged  Alice.  She  had  more  influ 
ence  over  him  now  than  his  wife,  and  at 
her  urging  he  rose  and  took  a  seat  at  the 
table,  making  another  effort  to  throw  off 
his  gloom. 


52  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"Well,  Allie,  how'd  you  come  on  with 
your  recital — or  whatever  you  call  it?" 

"Very  well,  father;  only  I  wish  you'd 
been  there  to  hear  me." 

"  I  wish  I  had,  but  I  couldn't.  I've  got 
to  keep  treadin'  to  keep  our  heads  above 
water — rent  and  taxes  go  on  when  I  pic 
nic,  but  wages  don't." 

Linnie  sprang  down  from  her  chair,  as 
if  something  forgotten  had  occurred  to  her. 
She  ran  to  the  piano  and  got  a  little  poster 
or  printed  letter-sheet. 

"Oh,  poppa,  a  man  pushed  this  under 
the  door  while  we  was  away  to-day." 

It  was  a  notice  that  after  the  first  of 
July,  1 884,  the  expiration  of  his  lease,  the 
landlord  found  it  necessary  to  raise  the 
rent.  Please  notify,  etc.  A  messenger 
with  a  bag  full  of  these  notices  had  been 
sent  out  to  distribute  them  in  the  tene 
ments  of  the  great  land-holder  whose  name 
was  at  the  bottom. 

Edwards  sat  as  if  stunned  by  this  last 
blow — sat  and  gazed  at  the  paper  in  his 
hands.  In  those  few  moments  he  had 
traced  their  devious  way  about  the  city. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  53 

How  they  were  obliged  to  leave  K  Street 
for  a  poorer  place  on  Carver  Street;  how 
from  there,  where  his  little  boy  died,  they 
were  forced  again  to  move  to  poorer  quar 
ters,  his  work  making  it  necessary  for  him 
to  keep  within  a  certain  limit.  In  his  pres 
ent  mood  all  these  things  assumed  a  tragic 
aspect.  His  fear  and  doubt  disturbed 
them,  and  as  his  mind  ran  out  into  the 
future,  his  feelings  grew  too  strong  for 
retention.  He  sprang  up.  His  face  was 
terrible  to  see,  his  hands  opened  and  shut, 
his  eyes  blazed. 

"  Hain't  they  got  no  mercy,  these  human 
wolves?  Hain't  it  all  I  can  stand  now? 
Look  at  it!"  he  cried,  flinging  his  hand 
out  toward  the  wall.  "Look  at  this  tene 
ment — hotter,  shabbier,  rottener — but  rent 
must  go  up."  His  voice  choked,  he  paused 
and  sank  back  into  his  chair.  At  last  he 
said,  "Jennie,  children,  I  don't  know  what 
we're  goin'  to  do.  I  don't  see  what's  corn- 
in',  but  we're  bein'  squeezed  out,  that's 


sure." 


Mrs.  Edwards  was  crying  quietly,  while 
looking  at  the  rent  bill.     Linnie  came  to 


54  JASON  EDWARDS. 

her  father  and  tried  to  comfort  him  with 
patting  him  with  her  little  hand. 

"Don't  cry,  poppa.  Please  don't.  It 
makes  my  throat  ache." 

Alice  sat  white  and  rigid  at  the  table, 
her  eyes  fixed  on  her  father's  face.  Never 
before  had  he  given  way  like  this.  There 
was  something  awful  in  it.  Was  he  going 
mad? 

"Never  mind,  Jason.  It  ain't  much. 
We  can  git  along  some  way.  We  have 
always"  — 

At  this  moment  some  one  pushed  the 
door  open.  A  small,  pale  young  man,  with 
a  peculiar  grimy  complexion,  and  cavern 
ous  great  eyes,  came  in,  holding  a  similar 
rent  notice  in  his  hand.  As  he  came  for 
ward,  another  man  with  a  huge  beard  and 
smoking  a  long  German  pipe,  lounged  in 
the  doorway,  with  a  peculiar  stolid  face, 
but  with  a  mocking,  questioning  gleam  in 
his  eye. 

"Aha!"  cried  the  young  man,  coming 
forward.  "Vat  you  say  now — eh?  Ees 
it  not  time  for  to  brodest  ?  My  vages  haf 
been  reduced  tvice  alretty  during  four  years. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  55 

My  rent  haf  been  raised  four  times.    How? 
Ees  it  not  hell?     I  say,  vat  you  do?" 

Edwards  shook  his  head.  "I  don't 
know,  Berg,  I  don't  know." 

"I  know  what  I  doo — soon,"  answered 
the  young  German  darkly,  as  he  turned  his 
face  to  the  man  in  the  door-way.  "  I  make 
brodest,  zo  I  shall  be  heardt." 

"Oh,  don't  do  that,"  cried  Alice,  "you 
mustn't  do  that.  Keep  away  from  those 
men  who  believe  in  dynamite.  They  don't 
belong  in  our  free  land" 

Berg  stopped  her  with  a  mocking  smile, 
which  was  dramatic  as  a  gesture. 

"Free?  Free  to  pay  rendt  in!  I  fly 
from  dyrants,  from  vork  andt  no  pay,  I 
reach  a  free  landt  where  I  am  a  slave 
under  anoder  name.  I  see  eferywhere  the 
march  of  feudalism.  I  lose  hope.  Ledt 
them  beware!  They  squeeze  me  to  de  vail. 
I  shall  vight.  I  am  a  volf  at  pay.  I  haf 
reach  my  las'  hope.  If  I  fall  now,  I  trag 
somedings  mit  me." 

There  was  a  concentration  of  purpose  in 
the  man's  tone  which  held  them  all  silent, 
though  they  could  not  sympathize  with  him. 


56  JASON  EDWARDS. 

Alice  rose  and  walked  up  to  him. 
"Don't  be  rash,  Mr.  Berg.  Don't  do  that 
— I  mean  what  you  mean.  Don't  go  out 
with  those  men — for  your  mother's  sake." 

The  young  German  gazed  at  her  for  a 
moment,  then  drew  a  long  breath. 

"For  your  zake  I  go  not  oudt." 

"  No,  no,  not  for  my  sake,"  she  protested 
hastily.  "For  your  mother's  sake." 

"For  your  sake,"  he  persisted.  "Do 
you  hear?"  he  said  to  the  silent  figure. 
"Ich  geli  nict  heraus." 

The  man  at  the  door  laughed  silently 
and  went  away.  Berg  also  went  out,  say 
ing,  "I  come  again  to  see  you." 

Alice  came  back  to  Edwards  with  a  fire 
in  her  eyes.  "Can't  you  do  something, 
father  ?  Can't  you  strike  ?  " 

"No,  we  can't  strike,"  said  Edwards 
spiritlessly.  "  At  least,  it  wouldn't  do  any 
good.  What  can  men  do  strikin'  with 
families  like  I've  got.  Rents  goin'  up  and 
wages  goin'  down.  I  don't  see  the  end  of 
this  thing." 

"Don't  give  up,  Jason,"  said  Mrs.  Ed 
wards,  in  her  monotonous  and  hopeless 


JASON  EDWARDS.  57 

way.  "We'll  get  along  some  way.  We 
can  live  in  a  cheaper  tenement." 

"I  don't  want  you  to  do  that,  Jennie. 
This  is  poor  enough,  God  knows." 

"I'll  give  up  my  studies,  father/'  said 
Alice,  with  a  firm  look.  "I'll  teach  and 
learn  typewriting,  and  I'll  help"  — 

"It  wouldn't  save  us,  my  girl.  By 
next  year  the  rents  will  be  higher.  It 
ain't  the  present  that  scares  me — it's  the 
future.  There  don't  seem  to  be  no  hope 
for  the  future.  I'm  gettin'  old.  I'm  lia 
ble  to  break  down  any  day,  and  be  sick  for 
a  week  or  a  month,  and  if  I  was,  we'd 
need  help  soon.  John's  wages  jest  barely 
support  him  and  wife  and  baby.  He  can't 
help  us,  and  Linnie  ought  to  go  to  school, 
and  Allie  ought  to  go  on  with  her  music." 

"I  can  give  that  up — I  mean  the  study 
ing —  and  I'll  make  it  earn  me  something. 
I'll  find  a  way  to  help  " 

"So'll  I,"  chirped  Linnie,  who  had  nest 
led  between  her  father's  knees.  "Poppa, 
don't  you  worry — we'll  earn  money." 

"What's  the  world  comin'  to,  Jason, 
when  sober,  hard-workin'  people  can't  get 


58  JASON  EDWARDS. 

a  decent  livin'?"  sighed  Mrs.  Edwards,  as 
she  looked  sorrowfully  over  the  uneaten 
supper. 

"I  don't  know.  I  tell  you,  Jennie,  I've 
done  a  pile  o'  thinkin'  down  there  in  the 
shop  since  my  last  cut-down.  I've  looked 
at  the  whole  matter  fore  and  aft,  up  one 
side  and  down  t'other,  an'  it's  jest  a 
plain  case  of  wages  goin'  down  and  rents 
goin'  up,  and  us  bein'  squeezed  between 
the  two."  He  thought  a  moment  darkly. 
"Jest  look  at  it!  Here  we  are  finally 
squeezed  into  one  o'  the  worst  places  in 
the  city,  simply  because  rents  are  so  high 
and  wages  so  low,  an'  we  can't  afford  car 
fare."  He  was  silent  a  long  time.  At 
last  Mrs.  Edwards  spoke. 

"Well,  less  eat  some  supper,  anyway: 
They  sat  up  to  the  table  once  more, 
but  the  meal  was  a  short  and  scanty  one. 
Each  was  busy  with  the  problem.  Alice 
toyed  with  her  spoon  and  cup,  looking 
with  wide,  unseeing  eyes  into  the  future. 
A  great  sob  of  disappointment  and  hope 
less  sorrow  came  in  her  throat,  till  it  ached 
with  physical  strain. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  59 

Her  thoughts  flew  to  Reeves  and  then  to 
her  music.  As  she  saw  again  the  vast 
audience  in  the  hall,  before  whom  she  had 
sung  and  whose  applause  had  been  like 
some  strange,  vast  assurance  of  her  power, 
and  a  prophecy  of  her  future  triumph,  and 
contrasted  that  scene  with  this  poor  little 
home  in  a  tenement  house,  she  was  bewil 
dered  and  despairing. 

The  father,  sitting  there,  was  so  real  and 
so  tragic,  with  the  tired  droop  in  his  shoul 
ders  and  the  shadow  of  defeat  in  his  eyes. 
The  smell  of  the  alley  and  the  so  and  of  the 
swarming  life  in  the  tenement,  so  powerful 
that  the  music-hall  and  its  gay,  flattering 
crowd  was  like  a  dream.  She  was  think 
ing  again  of  Reeves,  when  her  father's 
voice  recalled  her.  He  was  saying  in  a 
curiously  hesitating  voice,  "If  I  was  a 
young  man — if  I  had  nobody  dependin'  on 
me — or  if  you  and  I  was  young,  Jen 
nie" — there  was  such  a  terrific  rush  and 
clatter  and  screams  and  sound  of  blows, 
that  his  voice  was  lost,  and  he  motioned  to 
Linnie  to  close  the  door.  "Good  heavens! 
It's  like  livin'  in  a  lunatic  asylum." 


60  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"That's  the  reason  I  keep  the  door 
shet,"  said  his  wife.  "I'd  sooner  smother 
than  have  that  noise  dingin'  in  my  ears." 

"If  I  was  a  young  man,"  he  resumed, 
"and  the  girls  didn't  need  schooling  they'd 
be  one  way  out,  just  one — an'  that's  to  go 
West — get  a  piece  of  free  land"  — 

Alice  turned  quickly.  "Do  it  now.  Do 
it!  We'll  go  West  and  help  you,  won't 
we?  Why  didn't  we  think  of  it  before?" 
she  went  on,  warming  with  the  idea. 
"  Why,  of  course,  everybody  is  happy  that 
goes  West.  It's  the  only  chance  for  peo 
ple  like  us.  Everybody  says  'go  West!' 
Music  teachers  do  well  in  the  West — quite 
a  lot  of  the  girls  are  out  there" — she 
rushed  on,  impetuously  carried  away  with 
the  idea. 

Edwards  rose  and  went  to  the  wall 
where  his  coat  hung,  and  got  out  a  bundle 
of  maps  and  posters. 

"Well,  now  you've  said  that,  Alice,  I'll 
own  up  I've  been  studyin'  the  matter  for  a 
long  time.  I've  jest  about  wore  these 
maps  out  lookin'  at  'em  down  at  the 
shop." 


JASON  EDWARDS.  61 

The  posters  were  gaily  colored  affairs, 
calling  attention  to  the  cheap  rates  to  the 
"Garden  spot  of  the  West".  They  were 
the  usual  western  railway  folders,  with 
large  maps  of  Dakota  and  Kansas.  "Ho! 
for  the  Golden  West !  Free  farms  for  the 
homeless ! " 

Edwards  cleared  a  place  on  the  table, 
and  spread  them  all  out. 

"Now,  here's  Boston,  and  there's  Chi 
cago,  and  then  you  go  out  along  that 
black  line  till  you  get  there,  and  there's 
free  land?  Free  land,  mother!"  he  said, 
smiling  a  little  for  the  first  time. 

"What's  free  land?"  said  Linnie,  with 
the  Irish  inflection. 

"Free  land  is  where  they  ain't  no 
landlords  an'  no  rent,"  said  her  father. 
"Where  they  ain't  no  rich  an'  no  poor. 
Where  they  ain't  no  bosses  an'  no  servants. 
Where  people  don't  live  all  cooped  up  in 
dens  like  this.  Where  they  raise  such  corn 
as  that."  Here  he  unrolled  a  gaudy  poster, 
which  showed  a  bunch  of  resplendent,  enor 
mous  ears  of  corn.  "Where  people  have 
homes  of  their  own,  and  cows,  and  trees, 


62  JASON  EDWARDS. 

and  brooks  full  o'  trout  runnin'  by  like 
this,"  he  ended,  displaying  a  poster,  on 
which  was  an  alluring  picture  of  a  farm 
house  with  a  broad  river  in  the  back 
ground,  on  which  a  boat  floated  idly, 
containing  two  women,  presumably  the 
farmer's  wife  and  daughter.  The  farmer 
himself  in  the  foreground  was  seated  on  a 
self-binding  reaper,  holding  the  reins  over 
an  abnormally  sleek  and  prancing  pair  of 
horses.  He  wore  a  fine  Kossuth  hat  and 
a  standing  collar,  and  his  shirt  was  immac 
ulate.  A  deer  was  looking  out  at  him 
(with  pardonable  curiosity)  from  a  neigh 
boring  wood-lot.  It  was  the  ideal  farmer, 
and  the  farm  of  the  land-boomer  and  the 
self-glorifying  American  newspaper. 

"Oh,  let's  go!"  the  little  one  cried,  tak 
ing  it  all  literally.  "Can't  I  have  a 
hen,  poppa?"  she  asked,  catching  sight 
of  a  stately  flock  on  parade  by  the  wood- 
side. 

"A  dozen  of  'em."  While  Edwards  did 
not  take  the  poster  literally,  he  had  the 
eastern  laborer's  ignorance  of  the  West. 
It  was  all  fabulous  to  him. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  63 

"Oh,  goody,  goody!  Let's  go  to-mor 
row,"  chattered  Liimie. 

"Mother,  that's  our  way  out  of  this  hole 
sure  enough.  Ed.  Ruble  and  his  father 
went  out  there.  He  wrote  to  me  and  two 
of  the  boys  in  the  shop — cracked  the 
country  up  great — both  gettin'  rich,  he 
said.  We  can  build  a  log  house — that'll 
do  for  a  year  or  two,  till  we  raise  a  crop. 
You  can  stand  a  log  house,  can't  you,  Jen 
nie?"  he  said  tenderly,  putting  his  hand 
on  his  wife's  shoulders. 

"Of  course.  We  won't  mind  that.  But 
how'll  we  get  the  money,  Jason?  We 
ain't  got  much,  an'  it'll  take  a  lot  o' 
money  to  git  out  there  an'  git  settled 
fairly." 

"We'll  manage  some  way,  now  you've 
agreed  to  go.  We'll  have  to  sell  the 
furniture"  — 

"Oh,  will  we?"  asked  Alice. 

"Yes,  it  wouldn't  pay  to  ship  it.  Some 
of  the  things  we'll  pawn,  an'  mebbe  we  can 
redeem  'em  after  a  year  or  two.  I  can 
raise  a  few  hundred  dollars,  I  guess,  all 
told." 


64  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"That  old  blue  Chiny  set  of  mine  that 
Grandfather  Baldwin  give  grandmother — 
the  old  man  that  mends  Chiny  says  its 
worth  a  lot  o'  money — I'll  sell  that,"  put 
in  Mrs.  Edwards. 

"Good!"  said  Jason,  who  was  looking 
at  the  map.  "We'll  find  a  way  now  we've 
made  up  our  minds  to  go.  If  I  hadn't 
been  a  fool,  we'd  'a'  gone  long  'fore  this." 

"I  wonder  if  John'll  go." 

"He  would,  but  his  wife  won't  listen 
to  it.  I  know,  'cause  he  told  me  he'd 
talked  the  whole  thing  over  with  her. 
There's  the  road  to  health  and  wealth! 
Good-by  to  rents." 

Edwards  was  already  expanding  with 
the  freedom  of  it  all.  He  let  his  imagina 
tion  have  full  wing,  and  as  he  talked,  he 
seemed  like  a  new  man.  The  breath  of  a 
new  life  seemed  to  enter  into  him. 

"  I  see  the  way  out  now.  By  the  time 
Linnie  grows  up  I'll  be  able  to  come  back 
here  and  live  independent.  I  feel  as  if  a 
pile-driver  had  rolled  off  my  shoulders." 

"You  look  so,  father,"  smiled  Alice. 
"You  look  more  like  your  real  self  now. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  65 

I'll  take  my  piano  and  teach  music.     Per 
haps  I  can  get  a  place  in  the  schools." 

"  We'll  find  plenty  to  do  out  there. 
The  thing  is,  to  get  out  there.  Then 
we're  all  right.  When'll  we  go?" 

"Let's  go  right  off,"  said  Linnie. 

"All  right,"  replied  Edwards,  as  if  the 
advice  had  come  from  a  reliable  source. 

He  was  already  full  of  springing  dreams. 
In  a  vague,  sunny  field  of  vision,  he  saw  a 
comfortable  home  among  the  trees,  a  lake 
near  at  hand  (or  a  river) ,  golden  fields  of 
grain,  and  cattle  feeding  on  green  hillsides. 
All  the  reports  of  plenty  he  had  ever  read 
came  back  now  to  fill  his  mind.  Letters 
from  friends  and  relatives,  newspaper  arti 
cles,  lectures,  poems,  songs,  all  the  legend 
ary,  as  well  as  real  prosperity  and  cheer  of 
the  great  West. 

"What  was  that  old  song  you  used  to 
sing,  Jennie,  something  about  'O'er  the 
hills  in  legions,  boys' — can't  you  remem 
ber  it?  About  buffaloes  an'  ploughs  an' 
rifles"  — 

Mrs.  Edwards,  who  was  busy  about  the 
table,  stopped  and  hummed  an  old  air. 


66  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"That's  it!  That's  it!"  said  Edwards. 
"Can't  you  play  it,  Allie?" 

Alice  went  to  the  piano  and  struck  the 
chord s,  while  Mrs.  Edwards  sang  an  old 
song  current  years  ago,  a  song  which  is 
full  of  the  breath  of  hope  and  the  peculiar 
vibrant  melody  of  the  pioneer  who  is  born 
and  not  made — a  song  that  makes  the 
heart  of  many  a  gray-haired  man  or 
woman  thrill  with  memories  of  long  jour 
neys,  stormy  nights,  sombre  forests  and 
sunny  streams — a  song  that  dates  far  into 
the  forties,  bringing  forward  to  us  to-day 
the  boundless  energy  and  freedom  and 
imagination  of  Boone  and  Crockett,  and 
the  men  they  led  into  the  West. 

"  Cheer  up,  brothers,  as  we  go 
O'er  the  mountains,  westward  ho  ! 
While  herds  of  deer  and  buffalo 
Furnish  the  cheer. 
Then  o'er  the  hills  in  legions,  boys, 
Fair  freedom's  star 
Points  to  the  sunset  region,  boys, 
Ha,  ha!     Ha,  ha! 

"When  we've  wood  and  prairie  land 
Won  by  our  toil, 


JASON  EDWARDS.  67 

We'll  reign  like  kings  in  fairy-land, 

Lords  of  the  soil. 

Then  o'er  the  hills  in  legions,  boys, 

Fair  fields  afar ! 

We'll  have  our  rifles  ready,  boys, 

Ha,  ha!     Ha,  ha!" 

And  as  he  sang,  he  seized  Linnie  and 
danced. 


68  JASON  EDWARDS. 


IV. 


EDWARDS'  daily  walk  was  down  a  nar 
row  street,  a  drear,  desolate,  gray 
crevice,  hot  and  joyless.  The  hot,  dusty 
gray  of  the  cobble-stones,  the  brown-gray 
of  the  sidewalks,  the  sullen  drab  of  the 
houses  which  lined  the  way,  forming  a  des 
olate  searing  attack  upon  the  eyes,  unre 
lieved  by  any  touch  of  coolness,  harmony 
or  grace. 

There  was  a  full  half-mile  of  this,  which 
he  traversed  daily  for  twelve  years.  He 
knew  and  hated  it  in  all  its  phases.  Sullen 
and  sombre  when  it  rained,  dusty  when 
the  wind  blew,  foul-smelling  and  damp, 
bleak  and  deadly  when  the  cold  northern 
blasts  came  roaring  through  it. 

The  ingenuity  of  man  could  not  have 
devised  a  more  sinister,  depressing  and 


JASON  EDWARDS.  69 

hopeless  prospect.  The  houses,  mainly 
wood,  opened  directly  upon  the  sidewalk. 
The  brick  blocks,  offering  only  a  slight 
variation  in  ugliness;  little  bake-shops 
alternated  with  saloons  and  fruit-stores, 
where  dusty  and  specked  fruit  was  offered 
for  sale  to  the  children. 

This  street  Edwards  followed  till  it 
reached  an  end  in  another  thoroughfare, 
along  which  the  horse-cars  clashed  and 
tinkled.  The  last  half  of  his  daily  walk 
was  out  along  a  street  still  more  nonde 
script,  an  indescribable  abomination.  A 
street  lined  with  tumble-down  sheds  in 
which  rags  were  picked  over;  sheds  where 
blacksmiths  toiled  at  horse-shoeing  or  sharp 
ening  picks ;  sheds  alternating  with  vacant 
lots,  with  "Free  Dump"  cards  appearing 
there,  showing  that  some  speculator  was 
not  averse  to  having  his  lot  graded  for 
him. 

Frightful  stenches  were  abroad  along 
this  street,  offal  wagons  passed,  heavy 
drays  with  clashing,  clanging  loads  of  iron 
rolled  slowly  along,  drawn  by  three  horses 
tandem.  The  railway  side-tracks  and  shops 


70  JASON  EDWARDS. 

were  here,  and  the  sound  of  engines  start 
ing  and  stopping,  coupling  and  jerking, 
was  a  daily,  hourly  tumult. 

Shops  and  foundries  of  various  kinds 
were  located  here  on  this  low  ground,  and 
along  the  cindery  paths,  hot  as  ashes  in 
the  sun,  sticky  in  the  rain,  a  dreary  proces 
sion  of  workmen  like  Jason  Edwards  plod 
ded  sullenly,  slouching  for  the  'most  part 
with  little  of  the  lightness  and  joy  which 
the  morning  should  possess. 

Men  with  ragged,  grimy  coats,  with  din 
ner-pails  in  their  hands  and  pipes  in  their 
mouths,  went  to  their  work,  as  prisoners 
to  the  tread-mill.  They  had  no  interest  in 
their  tasks,  they  were  working  in  general 
to  live  and  feed  their  children.  They  were 
not  like  craftsmen,  but  convicts  in  their 
joyless  walk. 

Edwards  on  this  next  morning  after  his 
determination  to  go  West,  walked  along 
this  street  like  a  new  man.  He  saw  more 
of  the  horror — or,  more  exactly — acknowl 
edged  more  of  it,  than  he  had  ever  dared 
before  to  see  or  acknowledge.  He  was  like 
a  prisoner  whose  term  of  confinement  was 


JASON  EDWARDS.  71 

expiring,  and  who  could  therefore  afford  to 
see  the  terror  of  the  life  he  was  escaping. 

The  smells  were  never  so  offensive,  and 
the  low,  ramshackle,  dingy  shed  in  which 
he  had  worked  so  long  never  looked  so 
horrible  before. 

He  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  foundry, 
and  called  to  the  man  who  was  working  at 
the  furnace.  "Hello,  Jerry!  Goin'  to  be 
hot  again,  ain't  it?" 

Jerry  Sullivan,  a  fine,  stalwart  Irishman, 
came  to  the  door. 

"God  sakes,  man!  Wan  day's  like 
another  to  me.  But  what  puts  the  smile 
on  your  face  this  mornin'?" 

"I'm  out  of  it,  Jerry." 

"  Now  what's  that  ?     <  Out  of  it '  ? " 

"I'm  goin'  West."  Jerry  dropped  his 
bar  in  astonishment. 

"Ye  don't  mean  it,  Edwards?" 

"I  do,  Jerry.  I'll  be  damned  if  I'll 
stand  this  any  more.  I've  walked  this 
street  for  twelve  years,  and  I'm  sick  of  it. 
I'm  out  of  it." 

"I  wish  to  God  I  was,"  said  Jerry,  with 
a  touch  of  despondency. 


72  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"  Come  along !     Try  the  West." 

"I  can't  get  away." 

There  was  a  little  pause.  They  watched 
the  men  come  in  with  their  ragged  coats 
on,  and  change  their  tolerably  clean  shirts 
for  the  rags  and  tatters  which  did  duty  in 
the  shop. 

"Hello,  Pat!  How  are  yeh,  this  morn- 
in'?"  called  Edwards,  as  another  man 
came  up. 

"It's  a-all  right  for  him  to  be  shmilin' 
this  mornin' —  he's  out  of  it,"  exclaimed 
Sullivan.  "I  wish  I  could  go  with  yeh — 
I'd  do  it  in  a  minnit — damn  me  sowl,  but 
I  wud." 

Four  or  five  now  gathered  around,  eager 
to  hear  the  plans  of  Edwards.  Not  one 
but  said — 

"Glad  you're  gettin'  out  of  it,  Edwards. 
If  we  could  go  with  yeh — but  it's  no  use 
talkin'"  — 

There  was  something  mythic  in  the 
West  to  these  men.  It  represented  a  far 
away,  hopeful  region,  where  work  was 
plenty  and  rents  low.  Most  of  them  knew 
very  little  about  the  geography  of  the 


JASON  EDWARDS.  73 

West.  Montana  and  Kansas  were  about 
the  same  to  most  of  them,  but  it  was  all 
"West". 

It  set  them  dreaming  in  a  curious  way, 
this  heroic  change  of  their  fellow-work 
man.  It  opened  anew  the  possibilities  of 
their  going.  They  crowded  around,  ask 
ing  questions,  forgetful  that  the  "boss" 
had  entered. 

"Come,  get  to  work  here,"  sounded  the 
harsh,  almost  brutal  voice  of  the  foreman. 
"You'd  better  look  out  Locke  and  Bradley 
don't  jump  on  your  neck,"  he  said  to 
Edwards  in  a  more  jovial  tone,  as  he  came 
up. 

"They've  got  through  jumpin'  on  my 
neck,"  replied  Edwards. 

He  felt  a  delicious  sense  of  freedom.  He 
could  have  sung — in  fact,  he  did  make  a 
pleasant  noise  which  he  called  singing. 
He  was  in  no  hurry  to  go  to  his  own  shop, 
so  dropped  in  a  moment  in  a  shop  where 
wood-work  for  carriages  was  turned  out. 

A  particular  friend,  an  Englishman,  by 
the  name  of  Jasper  Barker,  worked  here 
as  machinist.  He  was  in  earnest  conver- 


74  JASON  EDWARDS. 

sation  with  Julius  Berg  when  Edwards 
entered.  Both  shouted  above  the  noise  of 
the  shop,  and  motioned  a  welcome. 

"I'm  goin',"  said  Edwards  with  vast 
elation. 

"So  'e  tells  me.  Well,  hTm  glad  some 
body  gets  hout  of  it.  HTd  get  out  myself 
honly  hTm  a-gettin'  along  in  years,  and  the 
children  and  he  very  think.  H'it's  the  think 
to  do,  though.  Wen  you  go?" 

"Eight  off  next  month.  Berg  says  he's 
goin',  too." 

"So  I  am.  I  shall  not  stay  do  vork  lige 
a  nigger — see  dose  men  vork." 

Edwards  looked  at  the  two  men  who 
were  bending  hot  steaming  strips  of  wood 
around  huge  semi-circular  blocks.  They 
used  heavy  machinery,  but  the  work  was 
terrific,  and  the  heat  intense.  One  man 
was  a  bulldog  in  shape  and  movement,  and 
was  a  prize-fighter  fallen  to  this — or  risen 
to  this — as  one  looks  at  it. 

The  other  was  a  curious  combination  of 
timid  face,  retreating  chin,  narrow,  brain 
less  skull,  but  tremendous  power  and 
endurance.  The  sweat  streamed  in  tor- 


JASON  EDWARDS.  75 

rents  from  both.  They  did  not  look  up. 
They  worked  as  silently  as  a  bulldog  fights. 

Together  they  swung  the  huge  forms  to 
the  axis,  then  while  the  prize-fighter  pulled 
down  the  wide  iron  band  which  encircled 
the  block,  the  tall  man  placed  four  of  the 
steaming  felloes  upon  the  band.  The 
machinery  was  started  by  the  fighter,  the 
form  revolved,  the  banded  wood  and  iron 
bound  upon  the  same  circular  block,  was 
fastened,  and  together  they  lifted  the 
heavy  block  away  beside  others. 

"Andt  all  dat  for  ten  tollars  a  veek," 
said  Berg.  "They  are  not  men,  they  are 
masshines." 

Edwards  walked  on.  There  were  some 
little  things  he  wished  to  do,  and  then  he 
purposed  gathering  up  his  tools. 

"Look  here,  Edwards,  you  can't  leave 
this  way  without  notice." 

"  How  much  notice  are  you  in  the  habit 
of  givin'  the  men  you  discharge?"  replied 
Jason.  "Besides,  I've  got  a  man  to  take 
my  place — better  man  than  I  am.  I've 
got  through  with  you,  or  anybody  like  yeh. 
I've  been  a  slave  about  long  enough." 


76  JASON  EDWARDS. 

As  Edwards  looked  in  at  the  foundry 
door  on  his  way  back,  about  five  o'clock, 
men  were  "pouring".  It  was  a  grew- 
some  sight.  With  grimy,  sooty  shirts, 
open  at  the  throat,  in  a  temperature 
of  deadly  heat,  they  toiled  like  demons. 
There  was  little  humanity  in  their  faces, 
as  the  dazzling  metal  threw  a  dull-red  glow 
on  them. 

Here  and  there,  with  warning  shouts, 
they  ran,  bent  like  gnomes,  with  pots  of 
shining,  flame-colored  liquid  lighting  their 
grimy  faces.  Here  toiled  two  stalwart 
fellows,  with  a  huge  pot  between  them; 
with  hoarse  shouts  they  drew  up  beside  a 
huge  "flask"  or  moulding-box.  The  skim 
mer  pushed  away  the  slag,  the  radiant 
metal  leaped  out  and  down  into  the  sand, 
sending  spurts  of  yellow-blue  flame  out  of 
a  half -hundred  crevices. 

There  was  a  man  calking  the  next  flask 
with  wet  sand.  He  paid  no  attention  to 
the  pot  of  deadly  liquid,  which  passed  close 
enough  to  singe  his  hair.  A  little  further 
on,  another  man  was  knocking  off  the 
clamps  that  held  the  flask  together.  Every- 


JASON  EDWARDS.  77 

where  was  heat,  the  smell  of  burning  wood, 
gases,  steam,  and  the  sight  of  leaping,  ex 
ploding,  shining  metal. 

Edwards  looked  up  at  Jerry,  who  stood 
beside  the  furnace,  stripped  almost  to  the 
skin,  in  a  heat  that  would  kill  a  man  unac 
customed  to  it,  heaving  scraps  of  iron  into 
the  horrible  cauldron,  which  he  was  obliged 
to  stir  occasionally  with  a  long  bar.  Below 
him  stood  another  half-naked  man,  whose 
business  was  to  alternately  open  and  shut 
the  vent  of  the  furnace. 

Sometimes,  as  he  punched  his  bar  into 
the  vent  and  let  the  terrifying  flood  of 
gleaming  metal  out,  it  exploded  all  over 
him  in  showers  of  bursting  sparks,  like 
an  explosion  of  Roman  candles,  making 
him  leap  aside  to  avoid  the  burning 
shower. 

The  metal  fell  with  a  beautiful  parabola 
into  the  pots  held  below,  while  the  man 
with  the  bar  seized  a  handful  of  fire-clay 
and  moulded  it  upon  the  long  staff,  in  form 
like  a  cork,  and  at  the  word  of  the  fore 
man,  or  when  pots  were  filled,  he  rammed 
the  clay  into  the  vent,  and  the  flow  ceased, 


78  JASON  EDWARDS. 

only  to  be  opened  again  a  few  moments 
later,  with  the  same  shower  of  sparks. 

Jason  Edwards  remained  a  long  time 
looking  at  this  scene.  Its  terror  came  in 
upon  him  as  never  before.  That  men 
should  toil  like  that  for  ten  dollars  per 
week,  as  Berg  had  said,  was  horrible. 

"I  would  preak  into  chail  pefore  I  do 
dat,"  Berg's  words  had  run. 

A  big,  hearty  man,  a  little  gray  in  his 
full  beard,  came  out  of  a  dingy  little  office 
near  by,  and  joined  Edwards. 

"I  hear  you're  going  to  leave  us." 

"Who  told  you?" 

"Jerry." 

"Well,  I  am.  I  don't  never  want  to 
see  this  thing  again." 

"Pretty  tough  job  these  hot  days,  sure." 

"And  all  for  ten  dollars  a  week !" 

"  And  that's  all  I  can  afford  to  pay  'em. 
I  won't  make  five  hundred  dollars  clear  of 
expenses  this  year.  I'm  pinched,  too.  I 
don't  get  anything  out  of  it." 

"Who  does?    The  angels  don't  get  it." 
*         *         %         *         #         % 

On  his  way  home  Edwards  stopped  foi 


JASON  EDWARDS.  79 

a  moment  at  the  only  pleasant  spot  on  his 
walk,  and  looked  across  the  flat  to  the  far- 
off  hills.  As  he  stood  there  wondering 
why  those  hills  should  be  so  inaccessible, 
he  heard  the  thrillingly  sweet  fan-fare  of 
a  coaching-trumpet,  and  the  next  moment 
down  the  street  came  two  coach-loads  of 
young  people. 

Ribbons  gayly  fluttering,  eyes  dancing 
•with  pride  and  pleasure,  some  of  them 
flushed  with  wine.  One  young  girl  held 
the  whip,  the  postilion  held  the  shining 
horn  to  his  lips,  signalling  all  carts  and 
drays  to  get  out  of  the  way.  "With  a 
whirl  of  dust,  and  grind  of  wheels  and  jin 
gle  of  chains  and  bits,  the  coach-loads 
passed,  just  as  the  men  in  the  foundry  up 
the  street  dropped  their  pots  and  stripped 
their  ragged  shirts  from  their  sooty,  trem 
ulous  muscles. 


80  JASON  EDWARDS. 


V. 


IT  would  not  be  true  to  say  that  Eeeves 
had  not  estimated  fairly  the  resistance 
which  the  peculiar  feeling  of  Alice  offered 
to  his  marriage  idea.  He  had  already 
learned  something  of  the  immense  force 
resident  in  that  slender  body,  and  some 
thing  of  the  iron  will  that  lay  behind  that 
delicate  oval  of  face,  from  which  the  brave 
eyes  looked  unwaveringly. 

He  could  see  them  now,  as  he  sat  at  his 
desk.  He  had  finished  his  work  in  the 
office,  and  was  ready  to  go  out.  He  should 
have  been  at  lunch,  but  here  he  sat,  dream 
ing  of  Alice,  and  studying  the  problem. 

"There's  abundant  good  sense  in  what 
she  says,"  he  thought,  gazing  at  the  flower- 
like  electric  lamp  which  hung,  a  pale-faced 
morning-glory,  before  him.  "It  is  a  hard 
problem.  It  isn't  merely  a  matter  of  help- 


JASON  EDWARDS.  81 

ing  them  over  a  bad  spot — it's  a  matter  of 
domesticating  them  in  my  house,  or  provid 
ing  for  their  living — and  to  her  it  has 
something  like  the  air  of  charity.  I  sup 
pose  she's  looking  forward  to  the  future,  of 
making  a  big  hit,  and  taking  care  of  them 
herself.  Well,  there's  nothing  for  it  but  to 
wait"  — 

"Hello!"  exclaimed  Daggett.  "Ain't 
you  going  to  attend  to  the  meeting  down 
to  the  Temple?" 

"Of  course — by  Jinks.  Eight  o'clock 
—thanks!" 

"Oh,  I  know  how  it  is  myself,"  grinned 
Daggett.  "Had  such  moments  of  dream 
ing  myself — when  I  have  nothing  to  do 
now  I  sleep." 

Reeves  went  down  the  elevator,  think 
ing  about  that  last  phrase.  Somehow,  it 
bit  into  his  mind.  Odd  his  mind  should 
suddenly  be  made  so  receptive  of  these 
ideas.  First  Alice,  and  now  Daggett,  cyn 
ical,  hard,  dry  old  Daggett,  had  set  him 
thinking. 

Was  it  not  true  that  most  men,  when 
their  work  was  ended  had  only  energy 


82  JASON  EDWARDS. 

enough  left  to  sleep?  Was  it  not  true 
that  American  business  life  was  sapping 
too  much  from  the  intellectual  life  of  its 
people  ?  he  asked  himself  as  he  went  down 
the  street. 

The  immense  hall  was  crowded  to  the 
doors,  and  on  the  stage  was  a  short  man 
with  a  large  brow  and  finely-shaped  head, 
speaking  with  a  peculiar,  vibrating,  crisp 
and  expressive  intonation,  while  the  audi 
ence  was  cheering  wildly.  His  words 
were  singularly  well  chosen,  and  his  style 
was  simple,  bare  of  ornament,  and  entirely 
individual.  He  walked  about  the  plat 
form  noiselessly  and  unconsciously,  and 
his  face,  very  sensitive  and  expressive, 
showed  sincerity  and  enthusiasm. 

The  sentences  which  he  heard  as  he 
entered  were  the  ones  which  seemed  to 
Keeves  the  most  striking  of  all  that  was 
said,  and  lived  longest  in  his  mind : 

"We  do  not  believe  in  charity.  We 
hate  charity,  because  it  is  not  justice.  It 
is  a  palliative  of  the  evils  caused  by  injus 
tice.  It  degrades  and  debases.  It  results 
from  a  system  essentially  wrong,  a  sys- 


JASON  EDWARDS.  83 

tern  which  denies  human  rights.  The  most 
ominous  of  all  signs  is  the  growth  of  the 
need  of  charity  in  the  midst  of  abounding 
wealth.  Equal  rights  to  all,  and  special 
privileges  to  none,  strictly  interpreted,  is 
the  solution." 

On  the  whole,  Reeves  listened  to  the 
speaker  in  a  professional  way,  making  vari 
ous  mental  notes  for  his  editorial  the  next 
day,  admiring  the  spirit  of  the  orator,  but 
believing  him  to  be  more  of  a  poet  than  a 
practical  economist.  The  meeting  itself, 
however,  was  a  revelation.  It  told  him  of 
how  much  discontent  there  was  in  the  city 
at  large,  and  in  his  article  the  next  day  he 
said  as  much  under  the  usual  impersonal 


we", 


"Mr.  George,  whose  genius  we  admire, 
is  right  in  saying  that  something  is  wrong, 
but  as  for  his  panacea,  we  do  not  place 
much  importance  upon  that.  But  finally, 
we  repeat  that  too  much  importance  can 
not  be  placed  upon  the  fact  that  two  thou 
sand  people  met  in  Tremont  Temple  to 
cheer  the  sentiments  that  social  conditions 
are  unjust.  That  is  the  important  thing 


84  JASON  EDWARDS. 

to  remember — not  the  fine-spun  theories 
of  a  dreamer  like  Mr.  Henry  George." 

When  he  came  down  to  the  office  next 
morning,  the  city  editor  was  reading  the 
proof  of  his  judgment. 

"You  hit  it  about  right/'  said  he  to 
Reeves.  "The  trouble  is  deep — too  deep 
for  any  such  three-cent  remedy  as  taxing 
site  value." 

"How's  that?"  asked  Reeves,  astonished. 

"I  say  we've  got  to  have  something 
more  radical  than  a  system  of  taxation  to 
cure  this  thing  " — 

"Say,  don't  talk  so  loud,"  put  in  the 
exchange  editor,  who  was  pillowed  in 
the  morning  papers.  "You  infernal  old 
anarchist" — 

"I  thought  George  sufficiently  radical," 
said  Reeves,  taking  off  his  coat. 

"Radical!"  said  another.  "He's  a  con 
servative  from  my  point  of  view." 

"Why,  Merrill,  what's  made  you  break 
out  in  this  new  spot?" 

"It  ain't  a  new  spot." 

"Ain't?" 

"No,  I've  been  a  red-handed-something- 


JASON  EDWARDS.  85 

'r-other  ever  since  I  bought  that  land  out 
in  Dorchester.  Paid  five  hundred  for  my 
lot,  went  to  work  and  built  a  good  house 
on  it.  Next  year  thought  I'd  buy  a  lot  for 
my  brother's  widow  to  build  on — by  Jinks! 
he  wanted  a  thousand  dollars  for  it." 

"Well,  that's  all  right,  ain't  it?"  said  the 
exchange  editor.  "  The  land  had  increased 
in  value." 

"Yes — my  work  and  money  increased 
the  value  of  his  lot,  and  he  got  it.  It's  all 
wrong,  I  tell  you!"  And  he  slammed  a 
handful  of  copy  into  the  lift  and  sent  it 
whirling  up  to  the  composing-room. 

"  Now  that's  the  way  some  people  rea 
son,"  philosophized  Daggett.  "By  the 
way,  there's  a  note  for  you  on  my  desk. 
Boy  made  a  mistake  and  left  it  in  my 
box." 

The  note  was  from  Alice,  and  asked  him 
to  call  soon,  as  she  had  something  import 
ant  to  say  to  him. 

Reeves'  spirits  rose  with  a  bound.  She 
was  going  to  consent.  She  had  thought  it 
all  over,  and  was  going  to  give  up  the 
struggle.  He  whistled  as  he  worked,  and 


86  JASON  EDWAEDS. 

his  face  shone  so  that  his  companions 
noticed  it. 

"Reeves  looks  as  if  he  had  been  made 
over  new.  I  wonder  if  it  can  be  the  result 
of  the  anti-poverty  meeting." 

"  Possibly  he  found  out  how  to  get  rich. 
If  he  has,  I  hope  to  God  he'll  let  me  know 
the  secret/'  put  in  the  financial  editor, 
who  was  busy  over  the  stock  exchange 
reports. 

"Oh,  Reeves  ain't  thinkin'  o'  that — it's 
some  girl  'r  other,"  Daggett  shouted, 
thrusting  his  head  out  of  his  distant  stall. 
"I  know  all  about  it.  Used  to  be  a  great 
hand  with  the  girls  myself." 

"Yeh  don't  say  so,"  said  the  military 
editor.  "Lookin'  as  you  do." 

"Lookin'  as  I  did"  Daggett  replied. 
"I  could  whistle,  an'  chaw  gum,  an'  write 
an  editorial — all  at  the  same  time  then. 
By  the  way,  Reeves,  that's  a  very  judicious 
little  article  this  morning — just  the  right 
tone.  We  don't  want  to  jump  on  a  man 
just  because  he's  got  a  crazy,  beautiful 
scheme  in  his  head — nothing  like  getting 
the  right  tone — oh,  by  the  way,  Merrill,  I 


JASON  EDWARDS.  87 

wish  you'd  write  an  article — column  or  so 
— on  that  Cobden  Club  bugbear.  I  see  the 
Chronicle  is  out  with  a  scare-head  this 
morning — cut  into  'em  sharp"  — 

And  so  the  work  went  on.  At  intervals 
Reeves  pondered  on  the  subject  of  that 
letter,  and  as  the  hour  for  his  release 
drew  near,  he  was  not  so  happy  over  it. 
The  interview  was  momentous  and  meant 
immediate  happiness,  or  a  long  separation. 
Somehow  he  couldn't  make  himself  believe 
it  was  either  of  these  things.  It  seemed 
impossible  that  a  girl  could  hold  out 
against  such  great  odds. 

It  was  the  play-spell  in  the  office,  and 
the  editors  were  smoking  and  pretending 
to  be  busy.  They  saw  Reeves  beginning 
to  get  ready  to  go  out,  and  began : 

"Say,  Reeves,  I'd  like  to  have  you 
throw  off  a  couple  of  sticks  about  this 
bloody  dog-show,"  said  Daggett. 

"Oh,  bother  your  show!" 

"By  the  way,  Reeves,"  said  the  military 
editor,  "I  heard  a  capital  new  story  the 
other  day  about  Dr.  Johnson — sit  down 
here"  — 


88  JASON  EDWAEDS. 

"I  really  don't  think  that  hat  becomes 
him  well — do  you?"  chimed  in  the  liter 
ary  editor.  "  It  gives  him  a  depressed  look 
which  is  out  of  keeping." 

Reeves  fled.  They  were  all  good  fel 
lows,  but  he  didn't  care  to  be  joked  this 
night. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  89 


VI. 


'"PHE  street  was  again  crowded  with  peo 
ple,  but  differently — they  had  eaten 
their  suppers,  young  and  old,  and  now  in 
the  falling  dusk,  were  out  of  doors  to  get 
a  little  rest  and  fresher  air.  It  was  not 
and  could  not  be  fresh  air.  The  children 
were  playing  still,  but  a  little  less  wildly. 
Girls  of  fifteen  or  seventeen,  hardly  more 
than  children,  were  promenading  up  and 
down  the  streets,  chatting  among  them 
selves  and  exchanging  dubious  sentences 
with  groups  of  young  men  and  boys  stand 
ing  in  the  doorways,  insolent  and  noisy, 
boys  with  savage,  cruel,  sneaking  mouths, 
and  evil  eyes. 

Many  of  these  young  people,  already  old 
in  vice,  were  talking  horribly  and  laugh 
ing  senselessly,  as  they  stood  in  dark  nooks 
and  doorways,  while  their  toil-worn  and 


90  JASON  EDWARDS. 

weary  mothers  were  working  within  doors, 
clearing  away  the  supper  dishes,  or  putting 
the  younger  children  to  bed,  having  neither 
time  nor  patience  to  watch  over  their 
grown-up  sons  and  daughters. 

The  older  men  smoked  on  stolidly,  as 
they  sat  on  the  door-steps,  filling  the  street 
with  poisonous  smoke.  Some  of  them 
sauntered  down  to  the  saloon  on  the  cor 
ner,  and  some  were  talking  politics  in  the 
middle  of  the  street.  Most  of  them  paid 
very  little  attention  to  Keeves,  but  the  girls 
snickered  as  he  passed.  One  or  two  said, 
"Ah,  there!"  in  that  indescribable  tone 
which  is  both  a  jest  and  an  invitation. 
Some  of  the  men  looked  after  him  with 
an  envious  spirit,  and  some  of  the  young 
men  sent  out  a  volley  of  low-spoken  jibes. 
He  walked  on,  with  more  of  pain  and  dis 
gust  than  rage  in  his  heart. 

He  seemed  to  see  more  of  the  hideous 
future  of  these  people,  these  young  people 
born  for  a  prison  or  a  brothel  in  so  many 
cases.  How  long  can  this  disease  go  on 
intensifying,  he  thought.  He  stopped  a 
moment,  and  looked  at  it  all  with  a  sud- 


JASON  EDWARDS.  91 

den  sweep  of  the  eye,  a  hot,  unwhole 
some  alley,  swarming  with  vicious  and 
desperate  life — a  horribly  ugly,  graceless, 
badly-lighted  alley,  poison-tainted,  vice- 
infected.  He  thought  of  the  miles  of  such 
streets  in  Boston,  a  street  almost  typical. 
Boston  was  predominantly  of  this  general 
character,  as  he  well  knew.  The  real  Bos 
ton  does  not  get  itself  photographed  and 
sent  about  the  country. 

It  was  quieter  up  near  the  Edwards'  ten 
ement,  and  Linnie  and  Jason  sat  talking 
in  the  shadow  of  the  doorway.  The  pic 
ture  of  the  ideal  farm  on  the  poster  had 
made  a  profound  impression  on  the  little 
one's  mind. 

"And  we  can  have  a  boat,  can't  we?" 

"I  guess  so." 

"And  does  the  grass  come  right  up  to 
the  door?" 

"Eight  smack  up  to  it.  When  you  go 
out  the  door — splush — there  you  are  right 
in  it." 

"Oh,  I  wish  we  was  out  there  now! 
Don't  you,  poppa?  There  ain't  no  birds 
here,  'cept  sparrows,  and  they  don't  sing." 


92  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"They're  too  busy  gettin'  a  livin'  to  sing." 

Eeeves  stepped  up  before  them.  "  Good 
evening,  Mr.  Edwards." 

"Good  evening  Mr.  Reeves — didn't  see 
yeh.  Linnie,  run  up  an'  tell  Allie  Mr. 
Reeves  is  here.  Sorry  I  can't  offer  you  a 
chair  on  my  verandy — but  if  you'll  come 
out  West  a  couple  o'  years  from  now,  I'll 
doit"— 

"Out  West!"  exclaimed  Reeves.  "You 
don't  mean  to  say  you're  going — " 

"West — just  that,  exactly.  I've  stood 
this  kind  o'  thing" — he  looked  around — 
"about  as  long  as  I  can.  I've  decided  to 
make  a  break  fr  freedom — f'r  tall  timber, 
as  they  say  out  West." 

This  involved  so  much  that  Reeves  was 
silent,  waiting  for  him  to  go  on. 

"There  ain't  no  fair  sight  f'r  me  here," 
Edwards  went  on,  "and  now  mother  and 
the  girls  are  ready  to  go" — 

"Is  Alice  going?" 

"That's  the  calculation.  She  thinks 
there'll  be  a  good  chance  out  there  to 
teach  music.  But  go  up  and  see  her — 
she's  up  stairs." 


JASON  EDWARDS.  93 

Reeves  went  up  the  stairs  slowly,  think 
ing  rapidly.  It  was  absurd  how  low  his 
spirits  had  fallen.  When  he  entered  the 
door  which  Linnie  held  open,  Alice  was 
seated  by  the  window,  gazing  at  a  little 
patch  of  the  sky,  which  showed  between 
the  tenement  blocks — just  a  hint  of  the 
sunset's  glory. 

"What's  this  I  hear,  Alice — are  you 
going  West  to  grow  up  with  the  country?" 
he  asked  with  an  assumption  of  gaiety 
which  he  did  not  feel. 

She  turned  to  meet  him,  very  gravely. 
He  went  on  in  a  different  voice  then: 

"It  can't  be  possible  you  are  going." 

"Sit  down  here,  Walter — I've  got  so 
much  to  say  to  you.  Yes,  we're  going — 
as  soon  as  possible.  June  is  a  good 
time  to  go." 

"But  I  don't  understand.  It's  well 
enough  for  your  father  to  go,  but  I  can't 
think  of  your  going.  I  want  you  to  stay 
with  me,  Alice." 

There  was  poignant  appeal  in  these  few 
words,  and  they  shook  her  powerfully. 

"I  can't  do  that — they  need  me."     She 

7 


94  JASON  EDWARDS. 

was  not  quite  decisive,  after  all,  and  lie 
did  not  believe  it. 

"What  can  you  do?" 

"I  can  teach.  There  are  good  chances 
in  the  West  for  teachers,  and  I  will  get  a 
school  near  the  farm." 

"  But  what  of  me  ?    What  of  our  plans  ? " 

"We  must  wait." 

Reeves  rose  and  stood  beside  her  chair. 
"  Alice,  do  you  know  what  that  means  to 
us?" 

"I  know  what  it  means  to  father  and 
mother  and  Linnie,"  she  answered  eva 
sively.  She  took  a  morbid  delight  in 
keeping  her  voice  hard  and  cold. 

"Alice,  you're  leaving  me,"  he  cried 
despairingly. 

"For  a  short  time." 

"I'm  afraid  for  ever." 

"Can't  you  trust  me?" 

"No — not  two  thousand  miles  away." 

"Then  our  engagement  had  better  be 
broken  off  now,"  she  said  with  quick 
resentment. 

"Be  careful!" 

"I  mean  it.     I  don't  want  you  to  be"  — 


JASON  EDWARDS.  95 

"Alice,  you  are  leaving  me."  He  was 
deeply  moved.  He  could  not  understand 
her  motive  or  her  mood. 

"I  begin  to  lose  hope.  Will  you  ever 
come  back  to  me?" 

"Yes,  when  I  can  come  right.  When 
my  people  are  not  objects  of  charity.  Now 
please  don't  talk  of  that  any  more  now.  I 
can't  bear  it.  It  is  so  hard  to  leave  beau 
tiful  musical  and  art  life  of  Boston,  just 
when  it  seems  opening  to  me.  Don't 
make  it  harder  for  us." 

"Alice,"  said  Eeeves,  coming  out  of  a 
deep  fit  of  musing,  "if  your  voice  were  as 
hard  and  cold  as  your  words,  I'd  leave  this 
house  and  never  see  you  again — but  it 
ain't — you  do  care  for  me.  It  is  hard  for 
you  to  turn  away  from  me  and  all  that  I 
offer,  so  I  hope  to  have  you  coming  back 
one  of  these  days,  like  the  poor  little  dove 
you  are,  to  her  nest." 

"Would  you  rather  have  me  come  a 
poor  helpless  thing,  or  a  woman?" 

There  was  something  in  her  face  and 
voice  which  he  could  not  understand  — 
a  faint  light  from  the  patch  of  sky  was  on 


96  JASON  EDWARDS. 

her  averted  face,  as  she  asked  him  that 
question. 

Keeves  rose  despairingly.  "Will  you 
write?" 

"I  will  write — yes,  of  course/'  she 
replied,  looking  at  him,  and  when  Mrs. 
Edwards  brought  the  lamp  in,  Alice  was 
still  sitting  at  the  window,  looking  out  at 
the  fragment  of  sky,  into  which  a  star  had 
bloomed. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  97 


PART  II — THE  FARMER. 
I. 

IT  was  a  very  quiet  day  in  Boomtown, 
an  intolerably  hot,  dry  day  in  early 
July,  1889.  The  streets  were  practically 
deserted.  Here  and  there  a  team,  with 
tired,  drooping  heads,  stood  panting  at  the 
blazing  wooden  side-walks,  while  their 
drivers  sat  under  the  awnings  before  the 
shops,  or  clinked  beer-mugs  inside  the  cool, 
damp  saloon. 

Boomtown  was  the  usual  prairie  town, 
absolutely  treeless,  built  mainly  of  wood, 
and  scattered  about  on  the  dun  sod  like  a 
handful  of  pine  blocks  of  irregular  sizes 
and  shapes. 

Most  of  the  buildings  had  huge  battle 
ments  fronting  the  principle  streets,  and 


JASON  EDWARDS. 


awnings  over  the  front,  which  made  an 
admirable  lounging  place  for  the  clerks, 
who  found  little  to  do  these  hot,  dry  days 
but  sit  on  nail-kegs  and  boxes  and  toss 
pennies. 

It  was  just  before  harvest,  and  the  farm 
ers  were  pushing  haying  to  their  utmost, 
and  had  not  yet  begun  to  buy  their  provis 
ions.  Beside,  there  was  not  a  little  uncer 
tainty  as  to  the  possibility  of  a  harvest.  A 
vast  simoon-like  wind  was  sweeping  up 
from  the  South,  and  it  was  the  critical 
stage  between  flower  and  fruit.  The 
wheat  might  be  prevented  from  filling — 
this  wind  had  been  blowing  at  intervals 
for  a  week,  and  was  commencing  again  on 
this  particular  morning. 

The  radiant  sky  soaring  in  incommunica 
ble  splendor  above  the  parched  plain,  with 
its  anxious  dwellers,  had,  however,  a  faint, 
all  but  imperceptible,  whitish  tone,  as  if 
a  silvery  vail  were  being  slowly  drawn 
athwart  the  blue,  from  the  South.  Some 
of  those  most  weather-wise  said  this  meant 
rain,  but  most  observers  saw  little  encour 
agement  in  such  impalpable  change. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  99 

Judge  Balser's  office  was  a  favorite 
lounging  place  for  the  old  settlers  of 
Boomtown.  It  was  a  small,  wooden  build 
ing,  with  an  enomous  battlement,  on  which 
was  painted  in  large  black  letters,  (a  relic 
of  the  days  of  early  settlement  eight  years 
ago)  "Judge  S.  H.  Balser,  Land  Agent  and 
Attorney-at-Law.  Claims  located,  Final 
Proofs  Made  Out,  etc.,  etc."  It  was  on 
the  south  side  of  the  street,  and  was  one 
of  the  coolest  places  in  town,  a  fact  well 
known  to  the  loafers. 

The  judge  looked  very  natty  in  his  neat 
gray  suit,  his  beard  nicely  clipped,  his  cuffs 
immaculate,  and  was  sitting  with  his 
neatly-shod  feet  high  on  his  desk  beside 
his  pearl-gray  high  hat.  He  was  smoking 
daintily,  and  reading  a  paper  spread  on 
his  knee. 

Frank  Graham,  a  stalwart  fellow,  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  and  with  the  wicker  cuffs  com 
monly  worn  by  grocers,  on  his  wrists,  was 
also  seated  with  his  feet  in  air,  poised  on 
the  edge  of  a  table  which  sat  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor.  Hank  Whiting,  proprietor  of 
the  "Western  House",  sat  near  the  win- 


100  JASON  EDWARDS. 

dow,  his  feet  on  the  sill,  his  vest  unbut 
toned,  and  his  hat  on  his  neck. 

It  was  very  still  in  the  office,  save  when 
the  judge  rustled  a  paper — so  still  that 
the  flies  could  be  heard  buzzing  against  the 
window-panes,  and  the  distant  clink  of  an 
anvil  came  with  weirdly  muffled  sounds, 
joined  with  the  occasional  clang  of  the 
bell  of  the  switch  engine  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  street.  Whiting  was  dozing, 
Frank  was  evidently  dreaming,  but  not 
dozing. 

Suddenly  the  judge  yawned,  laying 
down  his  paper  and  raising  his  arms  above 
his  head  in  a  prolonged  stretching.  "  Oh, 
ho,  ho !  The  '  Argus '  still  lives." 

"What's  the  matter  now?"  asked  Frank 
listlessly. 

"Oh,  the  same  old  grind." 

And  as  the  others  listened  he  read  in  a 
languid  way  the  following  editorial,  and 
the  contrast  with  the  judge's  lazy  voice  was 
very  marked. 

"It  is  with  sorrow,  therefore,  that  we 
see  the  noble  profession  of  journalism 
trampled  in  the  mire  by  such  vandal 


JASON  EDWARDS.  101 


hoofs" — the  judge  paused,  knocked  the 
ashes  from  his  cigar  daintily  with  his 
ringed  little  finger. 

"Vandal  hoofs  ain't  bad." 

"By  such  vandal  hoofs  as  those  of  the 
editor  of  the  'Bellplain  Argus'.  Were  we 
the  only  ones  to  suffer  from  these  vile  vitu 
perations  of  the  paltry  poltroon  and  limit 
less  liar"  — 

"Good,"  said  Frank,  roused  out  of  his 
listlessness.  "  Limitless  liar  is  immense  — 
Shakespearean,  in  fact.  Wilson  ought  to 
hear  that." 

The  judge  proceeded.  "Limitless  liar 
and  troglodite  " — 

"Troglodyte!  Well,  now!  Must  be  a 
new  hand  on  the  'Pulverizer'.  Does  he 
pay  his  respects  to  the  'Spike"!  What 
does  he  call  the  Major?" 

The  judge  laid  down  the  paper  and 
yawned  again  heavily,  and  then  rose  and 
removed  his  coat,  put  his  hat  on  to  get  it 
out  of  the  way,  tipped  it  back  on  his  neck, 
and  sat  down  at  his  table  before  answering. 
"  Oh,  yes.  Same  old  bluff.  Says  our  boom 
is  on  the  down  grade,  that  the  railroad  is 


102  JASON  EDWARDS. 

going  to  be  extended,  and  leave  us — and 
so  forth." 

Frank  looked  slyly  around,  then  said  in 
a  voice  of  confidence,  "Well,  don't  let  it 
get  out.  But  I  haven't  averaged  twenty- 
dollars'  sale  this  last  week." 

Whiting  opened  his  lank  jaws  at  this 
moment  to  say,  "That's  nawthin' — leetle 
slow  now,  but  things  '11  boom  in  a  week  'r 
two." 

The  judge  was  also  confident. 

"'Course  it  will.  This  is  just  a  sort  o' 
breathin'  spell.  Everybody  lettin'  go  to 
get  a  better  hold." 

"Trouble  is  there's  a  lot  o'  fellows 
never  had  any  kind  of  a  hold  to  let  go  of. 
This  is  the  third  season  of  short  crops, 
and  fellows  like  John  Boyle  and  Edwards 
are  going  to  let  go  and  go  under,  unless 
they  have  help." 

Whiting  admitted  the  truth  of  this, 
but  the  judge  was  irritated  by  it.  He 
brushed  the  ashes  from  his  cigar  and 
spoke  with  more  of  feeling  than  he  was 
accustomed  to  show.  "  Yes,  I  know  there's 
a  lot  o'  such  fellows,  cussin'  the  country, 


JASON  EDWARDS.  103 

but  what  could  they  expect?  Come  out 
here  expecting  to  find  free  land  laying 
around  loose.  A  man  can't  start  in  a  new 
country  without  money." 

"Where  else  could  he  start  better?" 
inquired  Frank,  winking  at  Whiting.  "I 
thought  the  West  was  just  the  place  for  a 
poor  man." 

The  judge  whirled  about  impatiently. 
"That's  nothing  to  do  with  it.  As  I  told 
Edwards  when  he  first  came,  first  man  on 
the  spot  rakes  the  persimmons — you  can 
take  your  choice,  go  thirty  miles  from  a 
railroad  and  get  government  land,  or  give 
me  ten  dollars  an  acre  for  my  land.  It 
was  his  own  choice." 

Frank  whistled  softly  to  himself,  and 
at  last  said,  "A  man  once  jumped  over 
board  because  he  wanted  to.  It  was  a 
free  choice — only  the  ship  was  on  fire — 
that's  about  as  much  free  choice  as 
Edwards  had." 

"That's  none  o'  my  business,"  said  the 
judge,  resuming  work.  "  I  sell." 

"It's  almighty  hard  lines  for  Edwards," 
Frank  went  on.  "  His  crops  haven't  been 


104  JASON  EDWARDS. 

anything  extra,  and  he's  in  a  hole.  All 
that  keeps  'em  from  going  under  is  that 
girl.  She  manages  to  pay  grocery  bills 
with  her  teaching." 

"Fine  woman!"  observed  the  judge, 
with  mild  interest.  "  By  the  way,  do  you 
know  anything  about  her  Boston  dude?" 

"Not  much — somebody  said  he  was  com 
ing  out — Nasby  Blume,  T  guess.  There's 
nothing  like  being  postmaster  to  know  all 
about  such  things.  Nasby  says  they  write 
a  good  deal." 

"Has  the  fellow  ever  been  out  here?" 

"I  don't  think  he  has.  I  never  saw 
him." 

They  all  fell  silent  again,  after  the  man 
ner  of  sleepy  men  on  a  drowsy  day,  the 
judge  scratching  away  slowly  on  his  paper, 
Frank  gazing  out  of  the  window.  A  hen 
began  to  cackle.  "Say,  Judge,  you'd  bet 
ter  throttle  that  hen — sounds  too  pasto 
ral — takes  the  wire-edge  off  your  street 
car  talk."  The  judge  wrote  on  calmly. 

Presently  a  tall  old  man  in  a  faded  plug 
hat  and  a  linen  duster  came  along  the  side 
walk,  met  another  somewhat  younger  man, 


JASON  EDWARDS.  105 

a  farmer-like  person,  with  an  old  slouch 
hat  and  a  long,  ragged  beard.  He  had  a 
rake  on  his  shoulder,  and  a  white  jug  in 
his  hand. 

"How  air  yeh,  Daddy?"  he  said,  greet 
ing  the  old  man  in  a  jocular  voice.  "How 
is  this  for  high?" 

"Purty  high,"  answered  Daddy  Ruble. 
"  Purty  high !  How's  the  crops  ?  " 

"Purty  dry,  purty  dry!" 

"Purty  tuff  on  the  farmers,"  went  on 
Ruble  in  a  high-keyed  voice,  as  they  seated 
themselves  on  a  bench  just  outside  the 
door,  and  under  the  window.  The  back  of 
their  heads  showed  comically  just  above 
the  window-sill. 

Frank  laughed  and  winked  at  Whiting. 
"Sh!  There'll  be  music.  They'll  fight— 
they  always  do." 

"'Yes,  'specially  with  sugar-trusts  a 
boomin'  sugar  s'  high  yeh  can't  touch  it 
with  a  ten-foot  pole,"  Johnson  went  on, 
"an'  coal  kings  reg'latin'  the  price  o'  coal 
come  winter.  This  administration" — 

"Now  go  on,"  flared  Daddy.  "Go  on! 
Lay  the  weather  to  the  administration. 


106  JASON  EDWARDS. 

'Course  it's  the  fault  o'  the  administration 
— everything  can  be  laid  to  the" — 

"Wai!  It  'd  help  us  pull  through  if  the 
administration  would  let  sugar  in  free  " — 

"Oh,  go  on — go  on!"  shrieked  Ruble, 
leaping  up  in  a  frenzy. 

"Oh,  I'm  a  goin'  on — don't  worry," 
answered  Johnson  coolly.  "Where's  the 
boom  we  was  goin'  to  see  when  this 
ad " 

"You'd  lay  the  hot  wind  to  the  adminis 
tration,  I  believe,  you  old  fool ! " 

"Se'  down — set  down,  Daddy!  Don't 
tear  y'r  shirt.  You'll  live  jest  as  long." 
With  some  difficulty  Daddy  was  induced 
to  sit  down,  and  the  wagging  of  their  heads 
went  on,  though  their  words  were  inaudible. 

The  judge  paid  no  attention,  but  Frank 
was  shaking  with  laughter.  "See  them 
two  old  seeds,"  he  whispered  tragically  to 
Whiting.  "  They  think  they  run  Congress, 
and  they  neither  of  'em  know  Jack 
son's  dead.  Now  listen !  Johnson'll  wind 
Ruble  up.  He  always  does.  Let  her  go, 
Gallagher!" 

Johnson's  voice,  rising  above  the  other 


JASON  EDWARDS.  107 

man's  murmur,  could  be  heard,  "  What 
I'm  saying  is  this — we  don't  get  no  pro 
tection  on  our  wheat,  an'  too  dum  much 
on  our  sugar.  I  don't  believe  in  no  such 
scheme"  — 

"  Shut  up,  you  ol'  copper-head ! "  shouted 
Euble,  shaking  his  trembling  fist  in  John 
son's  face.  "You  don't  know  beans, 
you"  — 

"Set  down,  you  ol'  jackass,  an'  talk 
sense.  When  I  corner  yeh,  y'  alwiz  go 
off"  — 

"I  ain't  a  goin'  off!  Y'  can't  corner 
nawthin' — I'm  goin'  to  stay  right  here," 
shrieked  Ruble. 

Once  more  Johnson  got  him  to  sit  down, 
while  he  poured  poison  into  his  ear. 
Frank,  convulsed  with  laughter,  silently 
went  to  the  wall  and  pretended  to  crank 
each  of  them  up.  Their  voices  grew  angry 
and  loud  again,  and  Euble  sprang  up, 
unable  to  contain  himself. 

"There!  I  jest  callated  you'd  get  to 
that  dum  taxation  scheme  finally!  I 
won't  listen — I  won't  hear  a  word!" 

"Set  down!     Don't  go  off  half-cocked!" 


108  JASON  EDWARDS. 

roared  Johnson.  "You've  got  to  listen. 
Set  down  and  take  y'r  medicine  like  a 
man — you  old  land-shark!" 

"No  more  a  land-shark  'n  you  be," 
snarled  the  frenzied  old  loafer 

"Less  see  if  you  haint.  What're  yeh 
holdin'  them  lots  for?" 

"F'r  a  higher  price.  Ain't  that  all 
right?  Ain't  that  my  business?" 

"I  don't  know  whether  'tis  or  not." 

"Wai,  I  do." 

"No,  y'  don't.  You'll  find  out  the  asses 
sor  '11  have  sum  thin'  t'  say  about  that. 
Now,  don't  git  in  a  sweat.  Wha'd  yeh 
pay  fr  them  lots?" 

"None  o'  y'r  business — fifty  dollars." 

"Wha'd  yeh  sell  one  f'r  t'other  day?" 

"Seven  hundred;  but  whose  business" — 

"Now  listen,"  grinned  Frank.  "John 
son's  goin'  t'  rip  'im  up  the  back  with  the 
single-tax  idea — see  his  game?" 

"Did  you  make  it  worth  that  money?" 
Johnson  was  demanding.  "Did  you  ever 
lay  a  hand  to  them  lots  ?  Ain't  you  reapin' 
where  you  haint  sowed,  you  infernal  old 
sponge?" 


JASON  EDWARDS.  109 

"Don't  you  call  me  a  sponge,"  cried 
Ruble,  raising  his  cane.  Frank  stepped  to 
the  door  to  stop  them. 

"That's  jest  what  you  are,"  roared  John 
son,  also  rising.  "An'  if  we  don't  make 
you  sell  or  use  them  lots  this  year,  call  me 
a  sucker!" 

"You're  a  dumned  old  alliance  crank!" 

"That's  what  I  am.  An'  you  can't  set 
around  here  on  your  pants  an'  get  rich  out 
o'  honest  men" — 

Ruble  was  about  to  strike  him,  when 
Frank,  weak  with  laughter,  but  outwardly 
calm,  called  out  — 

"Hold  on,  there!  No  fighting  allowed 
on  the  grounds.  Daddy,  if  you  can't  keep 
your  whipple-tree  off  the  wheel,  don't  kick 
over  the  tongue.  Gentlemen,  both,  allow 
me  to  say  that  Jackson  is  dead,  and  that 
the  cruel  war  is  over.  In  the  words  of  our 
immortal  general,  'let's  have  peace'." 

As  Johnson  turned  to  go,  he  slyly  swung 
the  tail  of  his  rake  around  and  knocked 
Daddy's  hat  into  the  gutter,  and  scrambled 
wildly  away  with  shouts  of  laughter,  while 
Daddy  sputtered  and  Frank  laughed.  And 


110  JASON  EDWARDS. 

then,  as  if  an  echo  of  his  voice,  came  a 
penetrating,  powerful  peal  of  laughter,  fol 
lowed  by  others,  in  rhythms  like  the  drum 
ming  of  a  partridge — an  irresistible  chorus. 

"  Hello ! "  said  Frank.  "  Happy  Elliott's 
in  town  —  no  discount  on  that  laugh." 

Elliott  came  to  the  door,  and  bracing 
his  hands  against  the  door-frame,  looked  in 
and  laughed.  He  was  a  fat  man  with  a 
red  face  and  sandy  whiskers. 

"Hello,  you  old  porpus!"  said  Frank, 
as  he  sat  down  again.  "How  do  you 
stand  the  heat?" 

"Purty  nigh  unsolders  me,"  answered 
Elliott.  "Hello,  Judge.  Judge  always 
looks  to  me  like  a  red-headed,  slick-bel 
lied  oF  spider  waitin'  f'r  flies."  Elliott 
chuckled  till  he  was  forced  to  sit  down  on 
the  door-sill  and  mop  his  face. 

"Sweat  some  these  days?"  asked  Frank. 

"Bout  'nough  t'  keep  me  from  season- 
checkin'.  How  goes  it?" 

"First  rate.     How  are  you?" 

"All  broke  up  on  my  wheat." 

"You  look  it,"  put  in  the  judge. 

Elliott  looked  at  him  comically.     "All 


JASON  EDWARDS.  Ill 

that  keeps  me  alive  is  the  hope  o'  dyin' 
some  day,  an'  goin'  t'  heaven  an'  bein' 
able  to  let  down  chunks  of  ice  at  a  thou 
sand  dollars  a  pound  to  cool  the  judge 
below." 

"  He  looks  cool  and  sweet  now." 

"Yes;  nothin'  like  holdin'  the  money 
end  of  a  morgidge — eh,  Judge?" 

"No,  except  holding  two,"  the  judge 
replied  coolly,  going  on  with  his  work. 

Elliott  looked  at  him  admiringly.  "  Ain't 
he  a  daisy !  Ain't  he  a  tulip !  While  me 
an'  Edwards  are  worried  t'  death  over  the 
crops,  the  judge  sits  here,  cool  as  a  toad  in 
a  cellar,  and  harvests  his  interest  slick's 
a  cat  can  lick  her  ear." 

"Nothin'  like  it,"  said  the  judge. 

"Has  he  got  a  heart?"  asked  Elliott, 
after  a  pause. 

"Who?  Judge?  Naw!  His  heart's 
only  a  little  hydraulic  ram?" 

Elliott  roared  till  he  nearly  fell  to  the 
floor  with  exhaustion.  The  judge  calmly 
worked  away. 

"Think  o'  the  judge  up  to  his  neck  in 
brimstone  an'  prayin'  f'r  ice — 


112  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"There's  a  boomin'  oP  boomer 

On  the  lake  below, 
Oh,  how  I  long  to  see  that  day ; 

Up  to  his  neck  in  the  brimstone  flood, 
Oh,  how  I  long  to  see ! " 

sang  Frank,  and  Elliott  joined  in. 

"  Judgment,  judgment,  judgment  day  is  a  sailin' 
around," — 

"  Wall,  this  won't  buy  the  baby  a  shirt, 
n'r  pay  f'r  the  one  it  has  got,"  said  Elliott, 
rising  and  going  out.  "Keep  an  eye  on 
him." 

"Elliott  sheds  trouble  like  punkins  off  a 
hay-stack,"  said  Whiting. 

"His  laugh's  as  good  as  a  brass-band," 
replied  Frank.  "Everybody's  got  to  keep 
step. 

And  then  a  silence  fell  on  them.  The 
flies  buzzed  and  butted  their  heads  at  the 
window.  The  crickets  and  grasshoppers 
kept  a  steady  buzz,  and  the  wind  wan 
dered  listlessly  through  the  room,  scarcely 
adding  coolness  to  the  air.  At  last  Frank 
yawned — 


JASON  EDWARDS.  113 

"Well,  this  won't  do  f r  me."  He  rose, 
and  going  to  the  door,  looked  down  the 
street.  "This  is  the  deadest  day  I  ever 
saw  in  Boomtown — Great  Caesar's  ghost!" 
he  yelled  suddenly. 

The  judge  languidly  looked  over  his 
shoulder,  and  asked  listlessly — 

"Dog-fight?" 

"A  plug  hat!" 

"No!" 

"A  tailor-made  suit"  — 

"No,  I  say,"  yelled  the  judge,  in  great 
excitement. 

"It  can't  be!" 

"It  is!" 

"  Where,  f 'r  heaven's  sake ! " 

"'Just  come  out  of  the  Sherman  house. 
Coming  this  way!" 

They  made  a  rush  for  the  door,  where 
all  three  struggled  together  to  look  out. 

"He's  aimin'  fr  here,  Judge." 

"He's  a  tenderfoot,  sure." 

"Nail  him,  Judge." 

"You  may  trust  me.     Watch  me?" 


114  JASON  EDWARDS. 


II. 


DEEVES  had  never  been  out  to  see 
1  *  Alice  and  her  people,  and  for  several 
reasons.  In  the  first  place,  his  duties  as 
editor  were  very  binding,  allowing  him 
only  two  weeks'  vacation,  and  beside,  he 
wanted  the  invitation  to  come  from  Alice, 
and  he  fully  expected  her  "foolish,  morbid 
pride"  to  give  way.  So  he  waited. 

She  wrote  very  regularly,  but  coldly 
and  formally.  She  hoped  each  year  that 
"crops  would  be  better",  or  "prices  higher", 
and  avoided  a  discussion  of  their  life  prob 
lem.  She  asked  of  the  concerts  and  lec 
tures  and  theatres,  and  he  sent  her  books 
and  magazines,  and  so  year  after  year 
went  by,  very  swiftly  with  him,  as  with 
most  busy  men — and  neither  of  them  had 
made  any  decisive  movement. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  115 

There  were  times  when  he  almost  deter 
mined  to  give  her  up.  He  had  brought 
his  mother  from  the  old  town  in  which  he 
was  born,  and  they  lived  in  his  fine  cottage 
in  Meadow  View — lived  very  quietly.  In 
his  study,  which  he  allowed  few  of  his 
friends  to  enter,  he  had  a  life-size  portrait 
of  Alice,  just  before  him  as  he  sat  at  his 
desk.  It  would  be  betraying  a  confidence 
to  say  how  many  hours,  he  sat  looking  into 
those  wistful  eyes,  that  affected  him  as 
some  of  the  songs  of  Schumann  did — pro 
ducing  a  sadness  of  exquisite  pleasure. 

Jerome  Austin  said  to  him  one  day, 
"Most  extraordinary  case  of  my  experi 
ence.  (Jerome  had  painted  the  picture.) 
"Quite  like  the  poems  we  read.  Why, 
man,  such  constancy  doth  amaze  me !  Go 
forth  into  the  world — it  is  full  of  women, 
and  women  are  flesh  and  blood  and  appre 
hensive.  Still,  I  don't  deny,"  he  mused 
thoughtfully,  stepping  back  to  admire  the 
picture,  "  there  is  something  extraordinary 
about  that  face.  It's  got  what  we  paint 
ers  call  character  in  it.  I  wish  she  was 
here"  — 


116  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"So  do  I,"  said  Reeves  smilingly. 

"So  I  could  paint  her  from  life.  I 
remember  her  color  was  very  delicate,  but 
I  can't  recall  just  how  it  played  in  the 
cheek  and  chin." 

Reeves  used  to  sit  in  his  study  with  her 
latest  letter  in  his  hand,  and  wonder,  and 
go  over  and  over  the  problem. 

"It's  of  no  use  to  say  her  feeling  is  mor 
bid  and  her  pride  mistaken/'  he  said  once 
to  his  mother,  a  quiet,  refined  woman  of 
feeble  health,  "the  feeling  exists,  and  I 
don't  see  any  hope  of  her  yielding  as  long 
as  she  feels  it  her  duty  to  stay  with  her 
parents.  There  is  nothing  to  do  but  to 
wait." 

"But,  Walter,  I  want  to  see  you  have  a 
wife  to  take  care  of  you  when  I  am  gone. 
I  don't  know  whether  you  ought  to  con 
sider  yourself  bound  to  her  or  not"  — 

"That's  hardly  the  way  to  put  it, 
mother,"  he  said,  smiling  a  little.  "I 
couldn't  forget  her  if  I  tried.  I  don't 
want  to  be  released — I  don't  want  any 
other  woman — I  want  her.  You"  — 

"I  don't  see  what  there  is"  — 


JASON  EDWARDS.  117 

"That's  because  you  didn't  see  her, 
mother.  Love  may  be  a  habit — it's  my 
habit  to  think  of  her." 

"Well,  I'm  sure  you  need  some  one  to 
look  after  you — and  I'm  getting  old"  — 

"There,  mother,  now  don't  talk  that 
way.  Why,  you're  as  pretty  as  a  peach, 
and  spry — why,  you  are  as  spry  as  I  am, 

yet." 

It  was,  however,  the  death  of  his  mother, 
that  decided  him  to  make  a  visit  to  the 
prairie  and  bring  Alice  back  with  him. 
He  didn't  put  it  otherwise — she  must 
come  back  with  him.  Life  was  unbearable 
in  his  empty  house,  and  his  heart  went 
out  in  an  irresistible  impulse  toward  that 
womanly  girl  on  the  far  prairie. 

He  determined  to  take  her  by  surprise, 
but  relented  at  the  last  moment,  and  sent 
a  letter  to  apprise  her  of  his  coming. 
When  he  left  Meadow  View,  the  trees  were 
in  fullest  leaf,  the  birds  were  rioting  in 
the  mid-summer  madness  of  song,  and  all 
along  the  way  to  Chicago  and  beyond  he 
saw  the  same  luxuriance. 

He  saw  vast  fields  of  broad-leaved  corn, 


118  JASON  EDWARDS. 

tossing  in  the  brisk  wind  like  an  army's 
flashing  spears.  The  bob-o-links  soared 
and  tinkled,  the  hawks  swam  in  the  lazy 
air,  the  mowing-machines  clattered  through 
the  thick  grass,  and  here  and  there  around 
a  field  of  rye  or  barley  a  reaper  was  going, 
its  reel-blades  flashing  like  swords  in  the  sun. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  his 
heart  began  to  grow  oppressed  with  the 
level  landscape  of  Western  Minnesota.  As 
the  railway  left  the  Minnesota  woods  and 
lakes  and  struck  out  on  the  wide  prairie, 
dotted  here  and  there  with  small  white 
cottages,  he  began  to  wonder  if  Edwards 
had  settled  in  a  land  like  that;  could  his 
house  be  so  lone  as  that  ?  Night  settled 
down  over  him  while  the  train  pushed  into 
the  lonely  land. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning 
when  the  car  came  to  a  stand,  and  from 
his  berth  in  the  sleeper  he  heard  the  voices 
of  men  as  they  tumbled  trunks  out  of  the 
baggage  car.  He  knew  that  this  was  his 
destination,  and  hastily  making  his  toilet, 
he  stepped  out  on  the  platform,  and  looked 
upon  Boomtown  and  its  famous  valley. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  119 

He  saw  one  main  street  dividing  in  half 
what  looked  like  a  miscellaneous  heap 
of  wooden  houses,  with  here  and  there 
an  ambitious  brick  building  or  church- 
spire  rising  from  the  crowd.  The  streets 
stretched  away  toward  an  endless  sea-like 
infinity  of  plain.  And  when  he  turned 
and  looked  in  the  opposite  direction  it  was 
the  same  level,  variegated  expanse.  The 
line  of  telegraph  poles  ran  straight  as  a 
rifle  barrel  till  the  curve  of  the  earth  hid 
them  from  sight.  It  was  warm,  and  the 
sky  was  perfectly  cloudless. 

By  the  time  he  had  washed  the  dust  and 
grime  from  his  person  and  got  his  break 
fast,  it  was  nine  o'clock,  and  he  started  to 
find  the  Edwards  family.  That  was  his 
main  task — incidentally  the  town  inter 
ested  him.  At  last  he  was  recommended 
to  Judge  Balser's  as  a  good  place  to  secure 
information. 

As  he  neared  the  door  the  judge  walked 
briskly  over  to  a  big  book  which  lay  on  a 
sort  of  shelf-desk,  and  was  busily  talking 
as  Reeves  entered. 

"No,  Graham,  I  can't  let  you  have  that 


120  JASON  EDWARDS. 

lot  at  any  such  figure,"  he  said,  turning 
and  nodding  carelessly  at  Keeves.  "How 
de  do!  How  de  do!  Take  a  seat — be 
with  you  in  a  few  minutes.  No,  it's  worth 
a  thousand  dollars,  if  it's  worth  a  cent,"  he 
went  on  to  Frank,  who  was  nearly  suffo 
cating  with  laughter. 

At  this  moment  the  telephone  bell  rang, 
and  the  judge  went  to  it. 

"  Hello !  Sherman  House  ?  Oh,  it's  you, 
Billy.  No.  Seventeen?  All  sold,  Billy— 
awfully  sorry — I  say  I'm  sorry,  but  the 
Standard  Oil  Company  wanted  the  whole 
biz.  What?  Oh,  three  thousand  for  the 
unbroken  lot.  I  don't  know — put  up  a 
warehouse,  I  believe.  I  say — is  Godfrey 
there  ?  Godfrey !  Graham  has  just  offered 
seven-fifty  for  the  lot  on  number  sixteen — 
better  sell — nine  hundred,  eh?  All  right. 
Good-by!" 

The  judge  hung  the  receiver  on  its 
hooks,  and  turned  to  Graham.  "I  hate  to 
sell  the  lot  at  that  figure.  It's  worth  more 
money.  Can't  I  suit  you  with  another 
lot?" 

"No;  I  wanted  that  identical  lot/'  said 


JASON  EDWARDS.  121 

Frank,  gravely.     "I  don't  want  a  lot  om 
the  north  side  at  any  price." 

The  bell  rang  again,  and  the  judge  said, 
"You'll  excuse  me,  won't  you?" 

Reeves  had  a  suspicion  that  they  thought 
him  a  tenderfoot,  so  assumed  the  latest 
London  accent  for  their  benefit. 

"  Certainly.  Don't  allow  me  to  intef eah 
with  your  business.  Ai  just  dropped"  — 

Judge  at  the  telephone  — "  Sherman 
House?  All  right.  Hold  on  a  minute. 
Graham,  look  up  number  fourteen  there, 
will  you  ?  I  think  that's  a  corner  lot." 

Frank  went  to  the  book  where  the  plots 
were  kept. 

"Yes,  one  lot." 

"Say,  Frank,"  said  the  judge  in  a  low 
voice,  "what's  going  on  at  the  Sherman 
House  ?  They's  some  nigger  in  the  fence. 
Can't  be  they've  got  wind  of  the  railroad 
deal"  — 

The  bell  rang  sharply. 

'  "  Wait    a    minute,    can't    you  ?     Hello ! 

Yes,  I  can  let  you  have  one  lot.     Can't 

say  now.     Call   me   up   again   in   a  few 

minutes.     Good-by!     I'll  just  call  up  the 


122  JASON  EDWARDS. 

Major  and  see  what's  in  the  wind/'  the 
judge  said  to  Frank,  who  was  studying 
Keeves  carefully. 

"Hello!  Gimme  the  Spike  office.  Hello! 
Major?  Say,  Major,  what's  the  news  from 
Hall?  What!  You  don't  say!  Good! 
I'm  onto  their  little  scheme." 

As  the  judge  sat  down  to  his  desk  to 
write,  Keeves  said  with  an  affected  drawl, 
"Business  is  rawther  brisk,  ai  take  it." 

"Oh,  pretty  fair,"  the  judge  replied  care 
lessly.  "But  I've  some  dandy  bargains." 

"  Ai  just  dropped  in  to  awsk  if  you  could 
get  me"  — 

"Certainly — get  you  anything,"  said 
the  judge,  rising  and  getting  the  book  and 
placing  it  on  Keeves'  knees.  "  Now,  there's 
a  lot  on  nine  that's  dirt  cheap  at  a  thou 
sand  dollars.  It's  a  jim  dandy!  Bound  to 
be  worth  two  thousand  dollars  before  snow 
flies." 

"You  don't  siy!"  exclaimed  Reeves. 

"  I  do,"  replied  the  judge. 

"  "What's  going  to  maike  it  worth  so 
much?" 

"Why,  the  boom  in  this  town.     Look  at 


JASON  EDWARDS.  123 

the  lines  of  road — seven,  and  a  new  one 
being  graded,  will  be  ironed  before  snow 
flies.  And  then  there's  the  plow  factory, 
capital  one  hundred  thousand  dollars  — 
and  grist-mill"  — 

"And  the  twine  factory,"  put  in  Frank. 

"That's  so,"  exclaimed  the  judge,  with 
unusual  enthusiasm.  "One  o'  the  biggest 
schemes  in  the  North-west.  Millions  o' 
tons  o'  flax  burned  every  year,  millions  o' 
pounds  o'  twine  bought  every  year.  Now 
a  stock  company  has  been  formed — will 
put  up  works  costing  seven  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  dollars"  — 

"Very  intristing,  indeed.  But  I  fawn- 
cied  you'd  be  ible  to  tell  me  abeout  this 
timber-clime  mattah.  Ai  bought  a  clime 
of  a  felleh  a  shawt  time  since,  deon't  you 
know,  an'  when  ai  saw  it  to-diy,  it  hadn't 
a  tree  in  sight!" 

Frank  found  this  a  splendid  chance  to 
explode  in  laughter,  but  the  judge  remained 
calm. 

"A  timber  claim,  my  dear  sir,  is  not  a 
claim  with  trees  on  it,  but  a  claim  on 
which  the  government  wants  trees  put." 


124  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"Yeou  deon't  saiy!"  stared  Reeves. 

"Oh,  yes,  that's  just  what  I  say." 

"But  the  felleh  said  the  timber  would 
be  immensely  valuable." 

"  So  it  will,  fifty  years  from  now,  when 
it  has  had  a  chance  to  grow,"  laughed 
Frank. 

"Then,  according  to  that,  you  think 
I'm  done,"  said  Reeves,  with  a  kind  of 
reproachful  look  at  Frank. 

"Done  brown — no  mistake." 

Reeves  looked  mildly  fierce. 

"  Oh,  deah !  How  I  should  like  to  meet 
that  felleh  agine  for  one  brief  moment ! " 

"You  wouldn't  hurt  him!" 

"I'd  punch  his  bloody  head?" 

"Oh,  that  would  be  cruel!  You  ought 
to  keep  your  'valley'  on  hand  to  protect 
you." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that?" 

"English,  I  take  it?"  ' 

"But  wdon't  yeou  tell  me  heow  you 
knew,  please?" 

"Each  hair  o'  your  head  proclaims  it," 
said  the  judge. 

"  Yeou  deon't  saiy ! " 


JASON  EDWARDS.  125 

"Oh,  yes,  I'd  gamble  on  that  twist  in 
your  tongue.  Now,  see  me  get  you  out 
of  this  scrape,"  he  went  on  with  a  fine 
assumption  of  friendly  concern.  "You'd 
better  invest  right  here  in  Boomtown. 
I've  got  a  lot  here  that  I've  been  saving 
for  a  friend  of  mine,  but  he's  lately  died, 
and  that  leaves  the  lot  on  my  hands.  It's 
worth  a  thousand  dollars  to-day,  but  I'll 
sell  for  seven-fifty.  It's  bound  to  go  up 
to  fifteen  hundred." 

"Very  kind  of  you — but  what's  going 
to  make  it  go  up  as  you  saiy?" 

"Why,  the  boom  on  the  town.  The 
people  coming  in — the  scarcity  of  land — 
see?" 

"  But  there  isn't  a  scarcity  of  land.  Bai 
George !  I  never  saw  so  much  land  in  all 
my  life — deon't  yeou  know?  And  yet  you 
charge  such  prices.  Ai  thought  this  was 
a  free-land  stite." 

"Oh,  that's  one  of  the  things  we  print," 
said  Frank  gravely,  "to  bring  people  out 
here.  It's  free  for  so  much — see?" 

Reeves  dropped  his  assumed  character. 

"  Yes,  I  see !     I  see  that  and  a  good  deal 


126  JASON  EDWARDS. 

more.  I  see  that  you  are  all  a  set  o' 
boomers,  and  flourish  at  the  expense  of  the 
real  workers  of  this  territory.  You  can't 
give  me  any  points  on  that  kind  o'  thing. 
I'm  a  single-tax  man." 

Frank  leaped  up  with  a  shout — 

"  What !     You !     Lookin'  as  you  do  ?  " 

"Looking  as  I  do/'  responded  Keeves, 
coolly.  "See  how  my  hair  stands  up? 
I've  seen  the  cat." 

Frank  seized  his  hand  in  a  transport  of 
friendliness.  (The  judge  took  his  hat  and 
slipped  out.)  "  So've  I.  Gimme  y'r  hand." 
They  shook  and  kept  shaking.  "You  look 
like  a  dude,  but  you've  got  the  grip  of  a 
man.  I  don't  know  where  you  come  from, 
but  I  know  where  you'll  go  to — thunder 
and  blue  mud!  Why  didn't  y'  say  so 
before?  Goin'  to  stop  long  in  town?" 

"Several  days." 

"Visitin'  friends?" 

"Yes — the  Edwards  family." 

Frank  gave  a  whistle  of  sudden  intelli 
gence.  "Oh,  I  see.  Certainly.  You're 
that  man  from  Boston!"  Here  he  seized 
him  by  the  hand  again  with  a  return  of 


JASON  EDWARDS.  127 

fraternal  good-will.  "  Success  to  yeh,  com 
rade —  she's  a  bonanza!" 

"Thank  you,"  smiled  Reeves. 

"Oh,  I  know!  Prospected  round  there 
myself  till  I  saw  'twant  no  use.  Claim 
pre-empted.  Case  of  monopoly.  See? 
Say,  looky  here !  Send  your  things  right 
over  to  my  house — not  a  word — got  to  be 
did.  I  keep  open  house  to  single-taxers  "  — 

"  Well,  if  you  insist  "  — 

"I  do  insist." 

"Well,  all.  right.  I'll  just  ring  up  the 
Sherman  House  and  have  my  valises  sent 
right  over  to  your  house"  — 

As  Reeves  went  to  the  telephone,  Frank 
nearly  smothered  in  laughter,  but  man 
aged  to  say — 

"I  would,  if  I  were  you." 

Reeves  turned  the  crank,  but  no  bell 
responded — turned  twice  or  thrice — 

"What  do  you  call  this  thing?" 

"A  coffee-mill,"  shrieked  Frank. 

Reeves  ground  it  once  more — 

"Well,  so  should  I." 

"Oh,  let  up  on  that,"  exploded  Frank. 
"That's  only  one  o'  the  judge's  little 


128  JASON  EDWARDS. 

schemes  to  rope  in  tenderfeet.  But  never 
mind — I'll  send  a  boy  around." 

Reeves  looked  at  the  transmitter,  then 
at  Frank,  wide-mouthed  with  laughter. 

"Now  look  here!  You  don't  mean  to 
say  that  telephoning  was  all  bogus?" 

"That's  what  it  was.  There's  a  button 
under  the  desk  there  that  rings  the  bell"  — 
here  he  pushed  the  button. 

Reeves  sank  into  a  chair  exhausted. 

"  Well,  for  ways  that  are  dark  and  tricks 
that  are  vain !  The  Western  land-shark  is 
peculiar." 

"Almost  equal  to  the  stock-gamblers 
and  Congressmen  in  the  East,"  chipped  in 
the  Westerner.  "Well,  how  goes  every 
thing  in  Boston  anyway  ?  By  the  way,  I 
don't  know  your  name — don't  make  any 
difference — a  little  handier,  that's  all"  — 

"Reeves — Walter  Reeves,  Daily  Events!' 

"My  name's  Graham — Frank  Graham. 
Now,  don't  worry  about  your  things.  I'll 
see  that  you  have  'em.  Old  man,  if  I 
wasn't  a  married  man,  that  girl  of  yours — 
but  let  that  pass.  I  congratulate  you — 
and  her." 


JASON  EDWARDS.  129 

"  Can  you  tell  me  how  things  are  going 
with  them?" 

"Yes — they're  going  pretty  bad,  as 
they  are  with  most  American  farmers." 

"In  what  way?" 

"In  all  ways." 

"Are  they  in  want?" 

"Well,  they're  poor  enough.  But  that 
girl!  Well,  she's  the  main-stay  of  the 
family.  She's  all  that  keeps  'em  up.  Old 
man,  why  don't  you  step  in  there  an'  give 
'em  all  a  lift — eh?  Excuse  —  I  can't 
help"  — 

"I  wanted  to,  years  ago — before  they 
ever  thought  of  coming  West." 

"And  she  objected?" 

"She  objected." 

"Why?" 

"Oh — a  sort  of — pride — a"  — 

"I  see — obstinacy,  we'd  call  it  out 
here." 

"No,  it  ain't  that.  Edwards  is  one  of 
those  men  who'd  die  in  the  harness  before 
he'd  give  up,  and  she's  a  good  deal  of  the 
same  spirit — she  hates  to  give  up." 

"Well,  all  is  —  old  man — if  you  don't 


130  JASON  EDWARDS. 

help,  or  the  Lord  don't  give  us  a  good  rain 
soon,  they'll  go  under  the  wheel,  sure  as 
shootin'." 

"Did  Edwards  buy  or" — 

"Bought  and  mortgaged,  of  course. 
There  wasn't  any  free  land  within  forty 
miles  of  the  railroad.  Judge  here  has 
charge  of  the  affairs  of  a  banking  estab 
lishment  that  holds,  I  suppose,  five  hundred 
mortgages  in  this  country." 

"By  the  way,  didn't  I  see  the  judge's 
name  signed  to  a  defiant  article  directed  at 
the  Eastern  press,  denying  the  poverty  of 
the  West?" 

"Yes,  that  was  our  Balser.  All  the 
names  on  that  list  were  either  bankers  or 
land-holders." 

Keeves  grew  bitter. 

"With  seventy  per  cent,  of  your  farms 
mortgaged,  those  men  have  the  nerve  to 
send  out  a  paper  like  that.  I  begin  to  think 
that  you  are  the  worst  cursed  part  of  our 
whole  nation. 

"Oh,  not  so  bad  as  that — I'll  come  back 
East  and  study  you  some  day  and  see — but 
here  comes  my  wife  to  call  me  to  dinner." 


JASON  EDWARDS.  131 

A  very  pretty  girl,  looking  almost  child 
ish  in  her  wide  hat  and  simple  calico  dress, 
came  to  the  door. 

"Frank,  the  dinner  is  all  drying  up — it 
won't  be  fit  to  eat ! " 

"  I'm  sorry,  for  we're  going  to  have  some 
company.  My  wife,  brother  Reeves." 

"Oh,  Frank  Graham!"  scolded  the  dis 
turbed  wife.  "How  can  you  bring  people 
home  when  I've  nothing  to  eat ! " 

"Don't  worry,"  said  Frank,  winking  at 
Reeves.  "I'll  take  a  can  of  Boston  baked 
beans  under  my  arm — if  he  don't  have 
his  valise  full." 

As  they  went  merrily  off  up  the  side 
walk,  past  the  sleepy  clerks  under  the  awn 
ings,  Judge  Balser  came  out  of  the  Sherman 
House,  with  a  genuine  customer  whom  he 
had  found  in  the  bar-room.  He  gave  a  fur 
tive  look  around  the  office  as  he  came  in — 

"Oh,  the  quiet  is  natural  just  before  the 
harvest.  People  are  getting  machinery 
out  ready  for  harvest.  We  have  it  every 
year.  That's  all  the  better  f'r  you.  That 
lot  at  seven  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  is 
sure  to  go  to  a  thousand  by  September. 


132  JASON  EDWAEDS. 


m. 


IT  was  hot  in  the  town,  it  was  frightful 
on  the  prairie,  bare  of  trees  as  a  desert. 
The  eyes  found  no  place  to  rest  from  the 
hot,  brazen  glare  of  everything — the  grass, 
the  grain,  the  sky.  There  was  absolutely 
no  fresh  green  thing  to  be  seen,  no  cool 
glint  of  water,  no  pleasant  shade — only  a 
radiant,  mocking,  sinister  sky,  flecked  with 
the  white  bodies  of  the  gulls  that  rose  and 
fell,  swooped  and  circled  in  the  blazing  air. 
The  farmers  toiled  at  their  scanty  crops  of 
hay,  and  eyed  the  sky  with  prayers  and 
curses  alternating  on  their  lips.  Every 
year  at  this  same  date  those  blighting 
winds  had  blown. 

Bare  on  the  immense  plain  stood  the 
small  unpainted  wooden  shanties,  unshaded 
and  unsheltered,  the  sun  beating  down 
upon  them  with  the  same  merciless  sever- 


JASON  EDWARDS.  133 

ity  the  mariners  tell  of  in  the  tropic  seas. 
Like  a  boat  becalmed  on  a  russet  sea,  each 
little  hut  parched  and  cracked  and  grew 
odorous  in  the  terrific  heat. 

The  wind  was  rising,  but  it  had  no 
moisture  in  it,  no  coolness;  it  was  like  the 
wind  from  a  furnace.  It  appalled  the 
stranger,  and  even  to  those  familiar  with 
it,  it  brought  terror.  As  the  men  stopped 
in  the  fields  and  leaned  on  their  forks  and 
turned  their  throbbing  faces  to  its  sweep, 
it  brought  small  relief. 

Many  men  quit  work,  or  failed  to  go  out 
at  all  after  dinner.  The  windows  and 
doors  of  every  shanty  were  open  to  allow 
the  wind  to  pass  through.  In  the  shadow 
of  the  barn  or  hay-stack  the  fowls  lay 
panting  with  open  beaks,  or  sidled  against 
the  wind  to  the  well  to  look  for  a  drink  of 
water  to  cool  their  parching  throats. 

The  Edwards  homestead  looked  like  the 
rest — a  small  frame  shanty,  shelterless  on 
a  slight  swell,  beaten  upon  by  the  noon 
day  sun.  It  was  composed  of  two  parts, 
the  upright  being  sixteen  by  twenty-four, 
and  a  story  and  a  half  high,  while  at  the 


134  JASON  EDWARDS. 

side,  serving  as  a  kitchen,  was  a  box-like 
shanty  which  had  been  their  home  for  the 
first  eighteen  months.  It  was  already 
gray  with  the  weather. 

Surrounding  the  house  were  signs  of  a 
garden,  but  plants  and  shrubs  withered 
and  dry  pained  the  eye  with  their  evident 
suffering.  A  low  stable  and  a  few  sheds 
stood  back  of  the  house.  Not  a  tree  or 
shrub  tall  enough  to  hide  a  child  was  in 
sight. 

At  about  two  o'clock  a  young  woman 
came  out  of  the  house  and  took  a  seat  in 
the  scanty  shade  of  the  house,  beside  a 
small  stand,  and  began  sewing.  As  she 
worked,  she  looked  often  across  the  prairie 
toward  the  distant  Boomtown — weird  and 
insubstantial  in  the  mist. 

It  was  Alice  Edwards,  worn  and  weary, 
and  looking  ten  years  older.  She  was 
always  womanly,  but  now  she  was  grave 
and  almost  stern.  She  was  plainly  look 
ing  for  some  one,  and  her  eyes  scanned  the 
prairie  with  painful  intentness.  A  girlish 
voice  was  to  be  heard,  singing  to  the 
accompaniment  of  a  piano,  a  rhythmical 


JASON  EDWARDS.  135 

negro  melody.  It  ceased  at  length  and 
Linnie  came  out. 

"My  goodness!  Ain't  it  hot?  I  hope 
mother  won't  try  to  come  home  till 
after  supper.  It's  ninety-eight  in  the 
shade.  Do  you  suppose  he  got  in  last 
night?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Alice  wearily. 
"I've  looked  so  long  across  this  endless 
prairie  that  my  eyes  ache.  Come  and 
look,"  she  said,  rising.  "Is  there  a  team 
coming?  Don't  that  look  like  a  carriage  — 
there?  Just  rising  that  swell  by  Peter 
son's  house?" 

Linnie  looked  leisurely  and  critically 
from  under  her  hand. 

"  Yup — a  top-buggy,  sure." 

"Oh,  if  it  shouldn't  be  Walter,  Linnie, 
I  should  sink  with  disappointment.  See 
how  plain  the  team  can  be  seen  now — I 
know  it  is  Walter.  His  letter  said  he'd 
get  in  yesterday.  How  silently  and  how 
swiftly  it  comes!  Oh,  the  plain!"  she 
cried  with  a  voice  of  utter  weariness. 
"It's  so  lonesome!  There  is  no  place  so 
dreary  to  wait  and  watch  in!  It  is  so  piti- 


136  JASON  EDWARDS. 

less,  so  beautiful — but  so  impassive — like 
a  dead  sea.  It  crushes  me." 

"I'm  sick  of  it,  too.  It's  almost  as  bad 
as  living  in  Pleasant  Street,  ain't  it?" 

"Almost — not  quite." 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Linnie  musingly. 
"I  wisht  I  could  hear  the  little  German 
band  that  used  to  play  down  by  McBreen's 
saloon  on  the  corner,  an'  see  the  circus 
parades,  an*  the  boys'  regiment.  A  mon 
key  and  a  hand-organ  would  be  just  gor 
geous  out  here.  Oh,  I'm  sick  an'  tired  of 
the  hot,  lonesome  prairie — I  wish  that 
team'd  hurry  up,"  she  grumbled,  looking 
away.  "I  don't  know  which  I'd  ruther 
die  of — lonesomeness,  'r  starve  to  death  in 
a  crowd." 

Alice  was  not  listening;  her  hands  had 
fallen  to  her  lap.  "I  think  it  must  be 
Walter — he's  at  the  second  moggason 


now." 


"  What  ye  goin'  t'  do  if  'tis  him?" 
"Oh,  I  don't  know— I  don't  know!" 
"I  know  what  I'd  do.     I  wish  I  had  a 

Boston  editor  that  wanted  to  marry  me. 

You  bet  I'd  let  him." 


JASON  EDWARDS.  137 

"Linnie,  what  do  you  mean?" 

"Mean  what  I  say,"  said  Linnie  stur 
dily.  "I'd  ruther  die  an  old  maid  in  Bos 
ton  than  have  forty  husbands  out  here/' 
she  concluded  with  much  decision. 

Alice  rose  and  walked  about  uneasily. 
She  was  tense  with  excitement,  and  her 
hands  clasped  and  unclasped  themselves 
constantly. 

" I  wish  I  knew"— 

"I  wish  I  did— but  I  don't,"  put  in  the 
practical  Linnie.  "  He's  a  drivin'  f 'r  all  in 
sight,  whoever  he  is.  He's  gettin'  there! 
I  hope  he  won't  stay  to  supper,  whoever  he 
is,"  she  added  after  a  pause.  "It's  too 
hot  for  company.  It's  awful  on  the  wheat. 
Father's  just  about  crazy.  See  him  down 
there  ?  He  don't  do  nothin'  else  but  walk 
around  and  look  at  that  wheat." 

Alice  started  to  go  in,  but  Linnie  stopped 
her  by  saying : 

"Ain't  yeh  goin'  to  wait  an'  see  who 
'tis?" 

"No,  I  must  go  in;  I  can't  stand  here 
and  stare  at  him  as  he  comes.  I — I" — 

"Well,  I  can.     I'm  goin'  to  stay  right 


138  JASON  EDWAKDS. 

here  and  see  who  it  is.  Beaux  are  too 
scarce  these  times  to  lose  sight  'o  one.  It 
may  be  Frank  Graham.  Say,  Allie,  here 
comes  poppa  after  a  jug  o'  water." 

Alice  turned  with  a  new  concern  in  her 
face.  "Oh,  don't  say  anything  to  him 
about  Walter's  coming,  will  you,  dear?  I 
don't  want  to  trouble  him  if  I  can  help 
it.  And  I  want  to  see  Walter  alone,  if 
possible." 

"All  right!"  nodded  Linnie,  with  her 
eyes  on  the  approaching  carriage. 

Jason  Edwards  came  in  with  a  water-jug 
in  his  hands,  and  proceeded  to  fill  it  from 
the  water  bucket  which  Linnie  raised  from 
the  well. 

"How's  the  hayin'  to-day,  poppa." 

"Tumble  hot." 

"  Poor  poppa !  Why  don't  you  come  an* 
sit  down  here  in  the  shade?" 

Edwards  took  off  his  torn  straw  hat  and 
wiped  his  face  with  his  sleeve.  He  was 
much  grayer,  and  was  bent  and  lame. 

"They  ain't  no  rest  f'r  me.  If  I  should 
set  around  in  the  shade,  my  girl  wouldn't 
have  any  home  when  winter  came.  Rain 


JASON  EDWARDS.  139 

'r  shine,  wet  'r  dry,  I've  got  to  keep  movin'. 
Where's  mother?" 

"Over  to  Mrs.  Elliott's." 

"Where's  Allie?" 

"She's  in  the  house  layin'  down.  She 
don't  seem  very  well  to-day." 

Edwards  sighed  deeply.  "Poor  girl! 
She  ought  'o  stayed  in  Boston;  but  it  'ud 
'a'  killed  mother  an'  me.  I  don't  see  how 
we  could  'a'  pulled  through  without  her." 

He  took  up  his  jug  to  go,  and  scanned 
the  horizon  closely.  He  was  pathetic 
almost  to  the  point  of  being  tragic  as  he 
stood  there.  His  coarse  shirt  was  open  at 
the  throat,  his  whiskers,  much  whitened, 
were  wet  with  sweat.  His  face  was 
flushed  in  a  way  that  would  have  startled 
an  experienced  eye.  His  hand  trembled 
with  fatigue,  and  his  poor,  patient  eyes 
were  dim  with  sweat. 

The  girl  saw  a  little  of  the  infinite 
pathos  in  his  face  and  figure,  and  she  went 
up  to  him. 

"Poor  dear  old  poppa!  How  hard  you 
work !  I  wish  I  was  a  boy  so  I  could  help 
you." 


140  JASON  EDWARDS. 

Edwards  felt  the  comfort  in  her  voice, 
and  turned  and  put  his  arm  over  her  shoul 
der,  pressing  her  face  to  his  side. 

"You  can  help  me  more  this  way,"  he 
said.  "Poor  little  sweetheart,  growin' 
up  here  without  schooling  without  com 
pany — oh,  it's  awful!" 

"Never  mind,  poppa — never  mind.  It 
ain't  so  bad.  Allie  teaches  me,  and  I  go  to 
school  summer-terms,  anyway." 

Edwards  looked  at  the  sky.  "  Seems  as 
if  it  gets  hotter  every  minute." 

"Don't  work  too  hard — you'll  get  a  sun 
stroke,"  warned  Linnie. 

"If  it  would  only  rain,"  he  groaned. 
"But  it  won't.  They  ain't  no  rain  left  in 
the  sky.  Oh,  God !  What  can  I  do ! " 

Linnie  burst  out  in  tears  as  he  staggered 
rather  than  walked  off  toward  the  field — 
but  as  she  heard  the  trample  of  hoofs,  her 
face  cleared,  and  she  cried  — 

"Allie,  Allie!  It  is  Walter.  No  other 
man  would  ever  wear  a  plug-hat  out  in 
this  wind." 

Then  she  seated  herself  coolly  on  the 
door-step  and  awaited  his  approach,  with 


JASON  EDWARDS.  141 

her  chin  in  her  hands  and  her  eyes  fixed  on 
him. 

Eeeves  drove  up  to  the  post  near  the 
well,  and  leaped  out.  After  hitching  one 
of  the  horses  with  trembling  hands,  he 
came  up  the  slope  toward  the  door. 

"Is  Miss  Edwards"— 

Alice  came  to  the  door.  For  a  moment 
they  looked  into  each  other's  faces,  as  if  to 
read  all  intervening  history,  then  Eeeves 
opened  his  arms. 

"Alice!"  he  cried. 

And  she  came  to  his  arms.  After  a 
moment's  silence,  Eeeves  raised  her  face. 

"What!  Crying?  I  thought  you'd 
laugh — oh,  it's  your  guilty  conscience!" 

Then  more  gravely,  as  he  saw  the 
change  in  her  — 

"My  sweetheart — that  face  is  sad,  tired 
— life  out  here  is  killing  you." 

Alice  tried  to  smile. 

"  Oh,  no ;  we  women  cry  when  we're 
pleased — and"  — 

"Laugh  when  you're  angry"  — 

"Oh,  Walter — I've  looked   forward   so 

long  to  seeing  you!     I've  watched  the  road 
10 


142  JASON  EDWARDS. 

for  days  and  days,  and  counted  the 
hours — it  was  so  lonely  here!" 

"Your  letters  didn't  read  so/'  said  Wal 
ter  quizzically,  as  he  led  her  to  the  chair. 
"  They  were  cold  and  formal  enough,  I  can 
tell  you  that." 

"I  didn't  dare  write — my  real  self." 

"Why  not?" 

"Oh,  because — because  I  was  afraid"  — 

"Afraid  I'd  come  and  get  you — eh?" 

"Don't  ask  me  to  explain  now — tell 
me  all  about  yourself;  but  first  let  me  get 
you  a  glass  of  lemonade,  you  must  be 
thirsty." 

Reeves  gazed  at  her  fondly. 

"Yes — thirsty  for  the  sight  of  you." 

Alice,  flushed  and  smiling,  went  into  the 
house,  calling  Linnie,  who  had  promptly 
and  considerately  disappeared.  Reeves  got 
up  and  walked  about,  eying  the  plain 
keenly. 

"So  this  is  the  reality  of  the  dream! 
This  is  the  <  homestead  in  the  Golden  West, 
embowered  in  trees,  beside  the  purling 
brook ! '  A  shanty  on  a  barren  plain,  hot 
and  lone  as  a  desert.  My  God !  What  a 


JASON  EDWARDS.  143 

place  for  her — my  beautiful  girl — for  any 
body's  girl!  A  wide-walled  grave,  arched 
by  a  mocking,  sinister  sky"  — 

Alice  entered  with  a  glass  of  lemonade, 
and  as  he  took  it  he  said,  "In  a  land  like 
this  the  sight  of  water  must  mean  as  it  does 
with  the  Arabs — the  highest  hospitality." 

Reeves  looked  older.  Gray  had  come 
into  his  hair  at  the  temples,  and  his  sunny 
smile  was  less  frequent.  Alice  studied 
him  with  hungry  eyes.  "  Oh,  I'm  so  glad 
to  see  you,  I  can't  say"  — 

"Don't  try,"  interrupted  he,  putting  his 
arm  about  her.  "I'll  say  enough  for 
two.  What  in  the  world  is  that  child 
doing  with  my  team?"  he  exclaimed,  look 
ing  over  the  well-curb.  "She's  unhitching 
them!  She'll  have  a  runaway"  — 

He  ran  down  to  where  Linnie  was  at 
work  preparing  to  put  the  horses  in  the 
barn. 

Alice  was  thinking  distractedly.  "How 
can  I  let  him  go  again!  But  I  must,  I 
must.  I  can't  leave  my  father  now." 

Walter  came  back  with  Linnie  on  his 
arm. 


144  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"Why,  you're  a  regular  little  horse- 
jockey,  ain't  you?" 

Linnie  laughed. 

"That's  nothin'!  Allie  and  I  hitch  up 
and  drive  the  plow-teams,  and  I  drive  the 
mower  and  reaper,  don't  I,  Allie?" 

"Do  you  do  that?"  asked  Reeves  in 
grave  surprise.  "With  this  hand?"  he 
added,  taking  her  hand  and  stroking  it. 

"You  don't  seem  to  mind  about  my 
hand,"  pouted  Linnie,  as  she  entered  the 
house.  "I  don't  count." 

"Not  yet,"  smiled  Reeves.  Then  turn 
ing  to  Alice,  he  said,  as  if  he  could  not 
believe  it — 

"And  you  live  in  that  den?" 

"Yes,"  said  Alice  simply,  "with  my 
people." 

"All  through  your  horrible  weather?" 

"Yes,  and  there  are  the  days  when 
it  seems  like  a  palace.  Days  and  days 
we  can't  leave  the  house.  Last  winter 
it  seemed  as  if  the  snow  would  never 
rest." 

Reeves  was  horrified.  "  What  a  prison ! 
And  yet  I  saw  a  dozen  not  so  good  as  I 


JASON  EDWARDS.  145 

came  along  the  road.  With  all  this  bound 
less  space  you  are  living  as  closely  as  in 
your  rooms  on  Pleasant  Street." 

"We  lived  in  that  shanty-part  a  year 
and  a  half." 

"  And  this  is  the  free  and  glorious  West ! " 
cried  Reeves,  lifting  his  head.  "And  you 
have  lived  all  these  years  in  that  hole 
rather  than  with  me  in  a  home!  Oh,  it 
makes  me  wild  to  think  of  it!" 

"There  was  no  other  way,"  replied  Alice 
simply.  "  They  couldn't  live  without  me. 
My  teaching  here  has  kept  us  in  groceries 
— and  there  have  been  days  and  weeks 
when  father  was  too  lame  to  take  care  of 
the  cattle,  and  I  have  done  it." 

Reeves  seized  her  hands. 

"Don't  tell  me  any  more — I'll  rage — 
I'll  swear — I  can't  stand  it!" 

"We  must  bear  it." 

"  Bear  it !  I  won't  bear  it.  I'll  expose 
the  whole  infernal  country  in  a  four-col 
umn  editorial.  I'll  smash  the  next  boomer 
that  says  land  to  me — free  land!  If  this 
is  free  land,  what  in  the  devil"  — 

"Sh!"    interposed    Alice,    putting    her 


146  JASON  EDWARDS. 

hand  over  his  mouth — but  he  freed  him 
self  and  went  on  — 

"If  this  is  free  land,  what  in  the  devil's 
name  is  paying  for  land?  You  and  these 
families  around  you  have  purchased  these 
bare  and  miserable  acres  with  all  that 
makes  life  worth  living." 

"I  know  it,  but  it  only  makes  it  worse 
to  know  it." 

"Well,  forget  it,  then,"  said  Reeves,  as 
he  took  her  hands.  "For  you  know  what 
I'm  here  for.  I've  come  to  take  you  out 
of  it — hush,  now!  Let  me  go  on.  I've  let 
you  spoil  the  best  years  of  our  lives,  and 
you  sha'n't  spoil  any  more." 

He  held  her  fast  as  she  struggled  to  free 
herself. 

"I  can't— I  can't— I"  — 

"  You  must,"  said  Reeves,  almost  angrily. 
"  I'm  master  of  you  now." 

She  ceased  struggling,  but  there  was  a 
look  in  her  eyes  that  freed  her  hands. 

"You  are  not,"  she  cried  with  a  gesture 
of  repulsion.  "You  go  too  far "  — 

"Alice,  listen!"  entreated  Reeves.  "I 
didn't  mean  that — forgive  me"  — 


JASON  EDWARDS.  147 

"You  did — you  meant  it.  It  was  the 
man's  tone.  Listen  to  me." 

"I  will  listen  when  you  talk  sense," 
Eeeves  impetuously  went  on.  "I've  come 
for  you — I  won't  be  put  off.  If  you 
refuse"  — 

"Suppose  I  do — what  then?"  asked 
Alice  in  fine  scorn. 

"  Then  we  never  see  each  other  again." 

Alice  was  shaken  by  his  tone,  which  was 
one  of  deadly  earnestness. 

"There  is  a  limit  to  my  patience,  Alice. 
Be  careful  how  you  answer." 

"You  are  the  one  to  be  careful.  You 
are  unjust.  Am  I  here  to  please  myself? 
You  are  cruel,  harsh,  unfeeling"  — 

"Alice— Alice!" 

"It  is  true.  Do  my  sufferings  count  for 
nothing — my  sacrifices?  I  see  and  feel 
all  that  you  do,  but  I  owe  something  to 
my  parents.  I  can't  leave  them  here,  and 
I  won't  leave  them — now." 

"What  good  has  your  sacrifice  done?" 

"See  these  hands,"  she  went  on,  impet 
uously.  "You  don't  know  half.  I  help 
keep  this  home  in  bread.  I  plow,  I  milk 


148  JASON  EDWARDS. 

the  cows — every  hand  is  needed  on  the 
American  farm.  There's  no  law  against 
child-labor  or  woman-labor  here.  But  I 
could  bear  all  this,  if  you  did  not  sneer — 
if  you  appreciated  what  I  am  doing." 

(Reeves  bowed  his  head  under  the 
rebuke.) 

"Walter — I  didn't  expect  that  from 
you!" 

When  Reeves  spoke  again,  it  was  in  a 
changed  voice — all  the  anger  gone  out  of 
it.  He  was  almost  awed  by  her  face  and 
voice. 

"I  don't  mean  to  be  hard — but  you  for 
get  my  side  of  it  all.  I've  waited  five 
years — and  now  you  say  wait  one  year 
more.  Another  year  and  we  may  be  dead. 
A  railway  accident"  she  started,  "a  stray 
bullet  on  the  street,  and  I'm  cheated.  Oh, 
Alice,  Alice,"  he  pleaded,  "don't  send  me 
back  with  empty  hands — don't  do  it.  I 
can't  bear  it — you  are  sacrificing  us  both." 

"We  must  wait — there  is  no  other 
way."  She  was  almost  ready  to  give  up, 
but  he  did  not  see  it. 

"Then   I   know  you   care   nothing   for 


JASON  EDWARDS.  149 

me,"  cried  Reeves,  leaping  up  in  despairing 
rage.  "  If  you  did  you  couldn't  be  so  hard." 

"Walter — you  have — hurt  me!"  she 
said,  shrinking  as  if  from  a  blow. 

"No — no;  I  don't  mean  that  —  don't 
mind  me — but  you  must  not  persist  in 
staying  here.  It  is  the  law  of  life  for 
daughters  to  leave  their  parents." 

Alice  shook  her  head,  her  steady  eyes 
looking  above  his  head.  "It  is  not  the  law 
of  my  life.  The  walls  of  the  beautiful 
home  you  offer  me  couldn't  shut  out  the 
memory  of  the  sorrow  and  loneliness  of 
this  home." 

"Think — consider!"  he  pleaded. 

"Think!"  she  cried  with  a  sudden  and 
thrilling  passion.  "  Think !  I  have  thought 
till  my  brain  whirled.  In  the  awful  silence 
of  the  prairie  one  thinks  till  he  goes  mad. 
While  I  saw  my  father  toiling  in  the  burn 
ing  fields,  my  sister  growing  up  in  igno 
rance,  I've  thought  and  thought — I've 
tried  to  understand  my  duty" — 

"Let  me  help  you,  dear,"  he  said, 
tenderly,  approaching  her.  "Let  me  put 
your  father  on  his  feet" — 


150  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"I  knew  you'd  say  that,"  said  Alice, 
with  great  love  in  her  face;  "but  father 
wouldn't  consent.  He  never  can  consent 
to  be  a  burden  on  your  charity — he's  too 
proud.  As  long  as  he  can  earn  enough  to 
shelter  and  feed  us,  he  never'll  submit  to 
be  helped.  When  he  bends  he'll  break. 
He  needs  money,  but  he  needs  me  more 
than  he  needs  money.  Mother  is  no  com 
fort  to  him  now,  and  Linnie  is  only  a 
child.  No,  Walter,"  she  ended,  shak 
ing  her  head  firmly,  "there  is  no  present 
help  for  it,  as  I  can  see.  Things  may 
change,  but  you  must  go  back  to  your 
splendid  life  in  the  city,  and  I  must  fight 
my  battle  here."  She  raised  her  hand  to 
silence  him — "It  is  useless,  cruel  to  press 
me  further.  I  have  decided  once  for  all." 

"I  can't  submit  to  this  folly!" 

"Walter,  you  must!" 

She  faced  him  with  a  look  of  stern  and 
gloomy  determination  on  her  face.  They 
stood  face  to  face  in  a  silent  battle  of  wills. 
She,  poor,  morbid,  unhappy  girl,  and  he 
indignant,  hurt  and  puzzled — his  strength 
and  experience  of  no  value  to  him. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  151 

There  was  no  yielding  in  her  steady 
eyes,  and  he  turned  with  a  sudden  anger. 
She  relaxed  and  her  eyes  closed;  but  as 
he  turned  she  raised  her  head  and  resumed 
her  implacable  mood.  He  hesitated  a 
moment,  bowed  and  walked  away. 

She  stood  gazing  at  him  till  he  entered 
his  carriage,  and  drove  rapidly  away. 
Then  she  sank  slowly  into  her  chair  and 
buried  her  face  in  her  arms. 


152  JASON  EDWARDS. 


IV. 


AT  four  o'clock  the  wind  was  still  blow 
ing  warm  from  the  South,  but  here 
and  there  were  to  be  seen,  lying  far  down 
around  the  horizon  snowy  thunder-heads 
rising  out  of  the  sea  of  pink  mist  in  which 
they  swam.  The  wind  was  more  fitful, 
too,  and  blew  as  if  weary.  The  crick 
ets,  mainly  silent  in  the  middle  of  the 
day,  were  singing,  and  the  grasshoppers, 
snapping  and  buzzing,  rose  and  fell  in  the 
grass  like  flakes  of  gold. 

The  gulls  still  swooped  and  circled  in 
the  wind,  but  they  were  beginning  to  move 
northward  toward  the  lake,  where  they 
rested  at  night.  The  wheat,  as  the  sun 
fell  less  powerfully  upon  it  and  as  the  wind 
stirred  it  less,  looked  greener  and  less 
withered — though  it  was  only  in  appear 
ance.  The  leaves  of  the  corn  rolled 


JASON  EDWARDS.  153 

together  by  the  dry  wind  and  beaten  into 
strips  against  each  other,  hung  like  battle- 
flags  after  the  conflict  is  over. 

Overhead  a  keen  eye  could  see  the  mist 
from  the  South,  faint,  almost  impercepti 
ble,  meeting  the  northern  current  and 
being  turned  back  by  it.  This  double 
motion  was  a  dangerous  sign,  and  many  of 
the  men  who  saw  it  shook  their  heads,  and 
prophesied  great  things  to  come  before 
night.  As  the  wind  ceased,  the  heat  to 
these  workers  seemed  more  oppressive  than 
before. 

Mrs.  Edwards  had  just  returned  from 
her  visit.  Elliott,  who  was  out  in  the 
road  talking  with  a  neighbor,  had  brought 
her  home.  Alice  was  seated  at  the  little 
table — one  arm  flung  wearily  across  it, 
and  her  pale  face  wearing  a  look  of  sorrow 
that  was  almost  despair.  Linnie  was 
washing  some  potatoes  in  a  pan. 

"Linnie,  girl,  did  you  shut  up  the  little 
turkies,  as  I  told  y'  to?" 

"Yes,  ma — but  you  needn't  think  it's 
goin'  to  rain.  I  believe  as  father  does, 
that  it  can't  rain." 


154  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"Where  is  he?" 

"Putting  up  hay  over  there — don't  you 
see  him?" 

Mrs.  Edwards  sighed.  "Well!  I  guess 
you'd  better  start  a  fire." 

"Oh,  it's  too  hot  to  start  a  fire.  Let's 
eat  bread  and  milk  to-night!" 

"No;  your  pa  ought  to  have  a  good  sup 
per  to-night.  He  haint  had  much  appetite 
lately." 

Alice  turned  to  her  mother. 

"Mother — Linnie — don't  tell  father  any 
thing  about  Walter's  being  here — please! 
Poor  poppa !  He  has  all  he  can  bear  now. 
I  don't  want  to  burden  him  with  my 
troubles." 

As  Linnie  went  into  the  house,  Mrs. 
Edwards  said,  with  a  peculiar  inflection  of 
placid  sorrow — 

"I  know  what  he  wanted." 

"  Yes,  he  wanted  me.  He  came  expect 
ing  me  to  return  with  him." 

"Poor  child!     I  wish  you  could  go." 

"And  leave  you  here  alone!"  cried 
Alice,  almost  fiercely.  "  Alone,  now !  And 
Linnie  needing  me  more  every  day.  I'm 


JASON  EDWARDS.  155 

not  quite  so  selfish  as  that.  But  I  don't 
see  why  life  should  be  one  relentless,  horri 
ble  struggle." 

"I  don't  see  how  we'd  git  along — why 
didn't  he  stay  an'  see  father?" 

"Because  I  sent  him  away.  I  could 
n't  hold  out  much  longer.  Oh,  mother, 
mother!"  cried  the  suffering  girl,  throwing 
herself  before  her  mother's  feet  and  bury 
ing  her  face  in  the  faithful  lap,  "  did  I  do 
right?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,  Allie!"  the  mother 
replied,  stroking  her  hair,  while  the  tears 
fell  upon  it.  "I'm  afraid  you  ought  'o 
gone." 

"And,  oh,  mother,  I  had  to  send  him 
away  angry,  without  a  good-by.  I  didn't 
dare  to  be  tender  to  him,  I  was  so  weak. 
Oh,  will  the  night  of  our  poverty  never 
lift?" 

"I  suppose  it's  the  Lord's  will." 

"I  don't,"  said  Alice,  raising  her  tear- 
stained  face.  "I  don't.  The  Lord  is 
good,  men  are  bad.  He  never  intended 
that  his  creatures  should  suffer  hunger  and 
cold." 


156  JASON  EDWARDS. 

Mrs.  Edwards  was  shocked. 

"Allie,  how  can  you  talk  so!" 

"  We  are  not  living  here  because  He 
requires  it  of  us/'  the  girl  went  on  bitterly, 
"but  because  men  push  us  out." 

"There,  there,  dear!  Don't  take  on  so/' 
said  Mrs.  Edwards  soothingly.  As  she 
rose  to  go  in,  a  young  man's  voice,  clear 
and  joyous,  could  be  heard  far  out  on  the 
prairie  — 

"The  West,  the  West,  the  beautiful  West, 
I  can  see  thee  in  my  dreams ; 
From  a  far-off  soil  my  feet  have  pressed 
I  could  see  thy  laughing  streams." 

"He  doesn't  mean  our  West,"  said  Alice 
bitterly,  as  Elliott  came  up  to  the  well,  jok 
ing  with  Linnie  and  Mrs.  Edwards.  He  took 
a  sip  of  water,  tasted  it  with  care,  cocked 
his  head  on  one  side,  and  at  last  said 
gravely  — 

"I  don't  see  anything  special  in  this 
water.  But  they  tell  me  young  fellers  go 
four  miles  out  of  their  way  to  get  a  taste 
of  it." 


JASON  EDWARDS.  157 

"Now  what  you  drivin'  at — tell  me," 
demanded  Linnie. 

"I  suppose  they  can't  find  the  dipper — 
obliged  to  call  f'r  a  glass.  Oh,  I'm  on 
to  all  these  little  dodges!  Was  young 
myself"— 

"When?"  inquired  Linnie,  as  he  stopped 
to  laugh. 

"  Oh,  way  back  in  the  dark  ages,  when 
I  was  on  earth  the  first  time.  By  the 
way,  Mrs.  Edwards,  you'd  better  think 
twice  about  that  offer  o'  mine  on  the 
6 spark  arrester'.  It  won't  be  six  months 
till  you'll  be  overrun  with  sparks." 

"  What  in  the  world  you  talkin'  about?" 
said  Linnie,  coming  nearer  him. 

"Spark  arrester — prevents  sparks  from 
comin'  out — indispensable  to  all  mothers 
of  girls."  He  roared  till  he  was  as  red 
as  a  beet.  He  turned  suddenly  to  Mrs. 
Edwards — "Which  'd  you  ruther  do,  die 
or  go  a-fishing?" 

"Go  fishing.  Oh,  I  long  for  fish,"  said 
Mrs.  Edwards,  with  more  of  real  emotion 
than  she  had  shown  in  many  a  serious  cri 
sis.  "I  never  lived  before  where  there 
11 


158  JASON  EDWARDS. 

wasn't  fish  —  and  lobster"  (she  called  it  lob- 
steh,  of  course).  "I'd  give  anything  for  a 
good  fresh  lobster!" 

"Lobster!"  exclaimed  Elliott,  who  was 
inland  born;  "I'd  as  soon  eat  a  t'rant'la." 

Alice,  who  had  paid  little  attention  to 
Elliott,  put  on  her  hat  and  said,  "  I'll  go 
call  father  to  supper,"  and  moved  off 
toward  the  field. 

Elliott  looked  down  the  road.  "Hello! 
Who's  this?  Some  thirsty  souls,  I  guess. 
I  begin  to  see  what  Frank  means  when 
he  says  all  the  trails  on  the  prairie  lead 
to  Jason  Edwards'.  f Strike  a  trail  any 
where,'  he  says,  'and  follow  it,  it'll  bring 
you  to  Edwards'  well."3 

A  carriage  drove  slowly  up  the  road  and 
turned  in  toward  the  well.  It  was  Frank 
Graham  and  Judge  Balser.  Frank  was 
leaning  back  in  the  carriage,  his  coat  off, 
his  feet  on  the  dashboard.  He  pulled  up, 
and  pointing  dramatically,  sang — 

"Don't  y'  see  de  dark  cloud 
Risin'  ober  yonder? 
Don't  y'  tink  wese  goin'  to  hab  a  rain  ? 
Oh,  yes,  as  sure  as  shootin', 


JASON  EDWARDS.  159 

See  the  lightnin*  scooting 

Sartin  sure  wese  goin'  to  hab  a  rain." 


As -he  closed  in  a  conversational  voice 
like  a  negro  minstrel,  he  leaped  out  and 
came  forward,  making  a  prodigious  start 
at  seeing  Elliott. 

"  Ett  two,  Brooty !  Elliott,  I'm  pained — 
I  truly  am !  A  man  of  your  weight  in  the 
community.  How  de  do,  folkses  —  Miss 
Linnie,  will  you  bring  me  a  glass?" 

"Same  old  trick!"  yelled  Elliott,  scream 
ing  with  laughter.  "  There's  the  dipper  in 
the  bucket." 

"Why,  so  it  is!"  cried  Graham  in  vast 
astonishment.  "Have  a  drink,  Judge  — 
if  you  dare!" 

As  the  judge  was  drinking,  Alice  came 
back  for  the  purpose  of  speaking  to  the 
judge,  and  while  the  others  were  talking 
and  laughing  at  the  well,  she  drew  him 
aside. 

"I'd  like  to  speak  with  you." 

"Desire  is  mutual,"  responded  the  judge, 
with  elaborate  courtesy. 

"Judge,  can't  you  be  easy  on   father? 


160  JASON  EDWARDS. 

Can't  you  let  the  mortgage  run1?  I'm 
afraid  he'll  go  crazy  with  the  worry — the 
crops  are  so  bad.  Oh,  if  you  only  would  "  — 

The  judge  replied  quickly — 

"  I  should  be  most  happy,  Miss  Edwards, 
but  you  see  I've  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
I'm  merely  the  agent  of  the  syndicate. 
Beside,  there  are  so  many  others  in  the 
same  box,  and  if  I  let  one  off,  they'd 
all"  — 

"Then  take  the  land!"  cried  Alice, 
despairingly.  "Don't  delude  us  with 
the  idea  of  ownership  where  we're  only 
tenants." 

"But  we  don't  want  the  land,"  explained 
the  judge.  "All  we  want  is  the  interest. 
We've  got  more  land  than  we  know  what 
to  do  with." 

He  had  made  it  too  plain.  The  girl's  face 
lifted,  lit  by  a  bitter  indignant  smile — 

"I  see!  It's  cheaper  to  let  us  think  we 
own  the  land  than  it  is  to  pay  us  wages. 
You're  right — your  system  is  perfect — 
and  heartless.  It  means  death  to  us  and 
all  like  us!"  she  said,  as  the  whole  truth 
came  upon  her.  "  We'll  be  homeless  again." 


JASON  EDWARDS.  161 

She  rushed  away  blindly,  escaping  the 
judge's  bland  smile. 

"Now  what's  the  meaning  of  that,  I 
wonder,"  Frank  Graham  said  to  himself, 
as  he  saw  Alice  go  away.  Elliott  and  Lin- 
nie  were  scuffling. 

"  Go  away  and  sit  down! " 

"  Oh,  ain't  we  savage !  What  a  fuss  we 
make  about  an  arm  about  our  waist,  don't 
we?" 

"Elliott,"  said  Frank  severely,  "such 
conduct  is  unseemly.  Come,  Judge,  you 
infernal  old  land-shark,  let  us  be  getting 
home  before  the  lightning  strikes  you  and 
injures  me.  Elliott,  come  along  home." 

After  they  had  all  gone,  Mrs.  Edwards 
and  Linnie  began  setting  the  table  outside, 
in  the  shadow  of  the  house  —  it  was  cooler 
and  pleasanter.  At  last  Mrs.  Edwards 
said — 

"Well,  there!  We're  most  ready.  Can 
you  see  y'r  pa  comin'?" 

"  Yes,  here  he  comes  with  Alice." 

"  Well,  set  the  tea  on  an'  see  if  the  p'ta- 
toes  are  done." 

Edwards  had  a  handful  of  wheat  in  his 


162  JASON  EDWARDS. 

hands,  which  he  had  pulled  up  by  the  roots. 
It  was  dry  and  whitish-yellow  in  color — 
blighted,  in  short.  Alice  was  walking  by 
his  side,  trying  to  cheer  him  up. 

"It's  going  to  rain,  father,  I  know  it  is. 
See  the  clouds  gathering  over  there? 
You'll  hear  the  thunder-giant  begin  to  walk 
pretty  soon." 

"Rain!  It  can't  rain  now,"  replied 
Edwards,  with  a  tone  of  despairing  bitter 
ness  that  was  terrible  to  hear.  "Them 
clouds'll  pass  right  by,  jest's  they've  all 
done  f'r  the  last  four  weeks.  See  that 
wheat  swash  like  water!  You  wouldn't 
think  to  see  it  from  here  that  it's  dry  as 
dust,  but  it  is.  Rain !  A  man  might  pray 
and  pull  till  his  eyes  dropped  out,  an'  he 
couldn't  draw  one  cloud  an  inch  out  of  the 
way.  We  might  jest  as  well  give  it  up," 
he  ended,  flinging  the  handful  of  wheat  to 
the  ground. 

"Don't  talk  so,  father,  please  don't.  It 
hurts  us.  Mother,  talk  to  him  —  cheer 
him  up,"  she  appealed  to  Mrs.  Edwards. 

But  Mrs.  Edwards  had  reached  that 
stage  of  dumb  patience  which  is  near  to 


JASON  EDWARDS.  163 

insensibility,  and  her  comfort  was  mainly 
physical. 

"Can't  you  eat  sumpthin',  Jason?  Set 
up  an'  have  some  tea.  Linnie,  pour  him  a 
cup  o'  tea." 

" Don't  give  up,"  pleaded  Alice.  "Let's 
fight  as  long  as  we  can." 

"  It  ain't  no  use,  Allie,  m'  girl.  Every 
thing's  against  us" 

"But  if  the  rain  comes  now"  — 

"It  can't  save  it.  See  them  white  spots 
out  there?" 

"Yes,  what  does  it  mean?"  asked  Alice, 
looking  away  with  strained  and  tearful  gaze. 

"'It  means  blight.  It  means  that  every 
stalk  is  like  them" — he  put  his  foot  on  the 
scattered  straws  he  had  thrown  down. 
"It  means  failure." 

"  Failure !     Is  there  no  hope  ?  " 

"  None  —  that  I  can  see.  We're  squeezed 
out  ag'in.  Squeezed  out  of  the  city,  and 
now  we're  squeezed  out  of  a  country  of 
free  land — I'm  just  about  ready  to  quit." 

"I  wish  I  could  do  something  to  help 
you.  It  scares  me  to  have  you  fail — 
you've  been  so  brave." 


164  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"It  scares  me  to  think  of  my  family. 
There's  a  quarter  section  of  wheat  dry 
enough  to  burn.  A  field  of  empty  heads  — 
empty  as  my  hands  when  they  should  be 
as  heavy  as  my  head  feels.  Oh,  I  can't 
stand  it.  It'll  make  me  crazy!" 

He  rose  and  walked  to  and  fro  in  agony, 
till  Mrs.  Edwards  came  and  laid  her  hand 
on  his  arm.  "Come,  Jason,  git  ready  f'r 
supper." 

"Oh,  I  can't  eat,"  he  burst  out.  "I 
don't  feel  as  if  I  could  eat  another  mouth 
ful  as  long  as  I  live." 

"Try  to  eat — for  my  sake — poppa," 
she  said,  using  the  old  childish  name. 
Edwards  paused,  sat  down  at  the  table,  but 
did  not  eat. 

"It  ain't  no  use  at  all,  Jennie,  children. 
I've  got  to  the  end  of  my  rope.  I've  lost  my 
last  chance — the  great  free  West!  Free 
to  starve  in.  I've  strained  ev'ry  muscle 
to  pay  f'r  my  free  land,  but  when  I  had  a 
crop  it  wasn't  worth  anything,  and  now 
there  ain't  enough  on  the  whole  farm  to 
pay  interest  on  the  mortgage,  say  nothin' 
of  other  debts  and  expenses." 


JASON  EDWARDS.  165 

Alice  went  to  him,  soothing  him,  cares 
sing  his  gray  hair.  He  went  on,  an  infi 
nite  pathos  in  his  voice  and  in  the  droop 
of  his  head. 

"My  life  is  a  failure — I  don't  know 
why.  Don't  seem  's  if  it  was  my  fault. 
I  know  it  ain't  yours,  mother.  Fifty  years 
of  work — an'  here  we  be!  I've  worked 
every  well  day  of  my  life  since  I  was  ten 
years  old;  we've  worked  early  and  late, 
an'  pinched  an'  saved.  I  never  was  a 
drinker,  we  ain't  had  the  necessities  of 
life — rent  went  up  an'  fuel  went  up,  an' 
wages  went  down — an'  here  we  are." 

Faint,  far  away  was  heard  the  boom  of 
thunder — 

"Hark!"  called  Linnie,  leaping  up  and 
clapping  her  hands — "It's  going  to  rain!" 
She  ran  to  the  corner  of  the  house  to  see, 
and  cried  again,  "It's  going  to  rain,  sure!" 

"The  world  has  been  jest  a  place  to 
work  in,"  Edwards  went  on  in  the  same 
bitter  tone,  "an'  now  I'm  wore  out." 

"Can't  we  sell  an'  go  back?"  asked  his 
wife  eagerly. 

"Sell!     We   ain't   got   nothin'    to    sell; 


166  JASON  EDWARDS. 

an'  if  we  had,  who'd  buy  it  in  this  God 
forsaken  country.  Jest  look  at  it — here 
we've  worked" — 

Again  the  thunder  broke  in  on  his  voice, 
unmistakably  nearer.  The  wind  had  died 
down.  Mrs.  Edwards  rose,  like  the  care 
ful  housewife  she  was  — 

"It's  goin'  to  rain — I  must  go  an'  see 
that  the  windows  are  shet." 

The  sun  was  already  veiled  by  the  rag 
ged  edges  of  the  rushing  cloud — wide, 
horizon-grasping  and  menacing.  As  the 
thunder  broke  out  at  shorter  intervals, 
Edwards  rose  and  joined  Alice,  who  was 
looking  anxiously  at  the  approach  of  the 
storm,  whose  foot-falls  shook  the  earth.  A 
shadow  already  lay  across  the  prairie, 
deepening  swiftly. 

On  came  the  wind-driven  mass,  preceded 
by  a  colossal  dust-colored  roll  of  vapor, 
which  stretched  like  a  looped  scarf  from 
east  to  west  across  the  blue-black  cloud 
behind.  It  tumbled  and  twisted  as  it  came, 
trailing  a  dense  shadow,  and  the  lightning 
flamed  in  branching  streams  from  it,  and 
dust  and  leaves  caught  up  from  the  plain 


JASON  EDWARDS.  167 

beneath  kept  pace  with  it.  Yet  it  was  per 
fectly  breathless  where  the  watchers  stood. 
An  ominous  hush,  hot  and  full  of  growing 
gray  shadow. 

"Oh,  father,  see!"  said  Alice,  pointing. 
A  vast  swirl  had  appeared  in  the  clouds 
beneath  the  scarf-like  wind-wrack,  a  vortex 
from  which  shone  a  greenish  light.  This 
light  grew  till  it  looked  like  a  gigantic  sin 
ister  eye.  An  instant  more,  and  a  long,  sil 
very-white  veil  seemed  to  drop  from  it,  and 
spreading  as  it  fell,  trailed  along  the  earth. 

Alice  was  fascinated  with  the  majesty  of 
the  scene — the  wide  plain,  the  boom  of 
thunder,  the  rolling  and  spreading  of  the 
clouds,  and  the  dazzling  lightning's  spang 
ling  thrust.  But  Edwards,  with  a  darken 
ing  face  and  closed  lip,  gazed  only  at  the 
marvelous  beauty  of  that  strange  veil  that 
streamed  down  from  the  cloud.  It  came 
drifting  along  the  plain  with  incredible 
speed,  shimmering  like  snow.  A  hissing, 
roaring  sound  now  grew  upon  the  ear,  the 
wheat  was  trampled  by  the  coming  storm. 
Edwards  comprehended  it  now — he  turned 
to  his  family,  and  cried  hoarsely — 


168  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"  In  with  yeh ! 

Mrs.  Edwards  and  Linnie  huddled  in  the 
doorway,  waiting  for  Alice  and  her  father. 

Edwards,  with  set  and  sullen  face,  made 
livid  by  the  lightning's  glare,  lifted  his 
hand,  and  half  groaned,  half  imprecated — 

"Hail!  by  the  livin' God ! " 

The  next  moment,  before  he  could  turn 
to  Alice,  the  storm-wind  rushed  upon  them, 
carrying  away  the  roof  of  the  kitchen  and 
dashing  out  every  window,  filling  the  room 
with  floods  of  water  and  rebounding 
hailstones.  In  the  deafening,  distracting 
tumult,  Linnie  and  her  mother  saw 
Edwards  put  his  hand  to  his  head  and  sink 
slowly  to  the  ground,  with  Alice  clinging 
to  him. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  169 


V. 


ALICE  never  could  tell  just  how  she 
dragged  her  father  into  the  house, 
out  she  must  have  done  it  alone,  for  her 
mother  and  Linnie  were  confused  and  weak 
with  fear.  Somehow,  in  the  midst  of  that 
horrible  crackling  roar,  in  the  midst  of  the 
incessant  glare  of  the  lightning,  while  the 
wind  and  hail  dashed  out  the  window- 
panes  and  flooded  the  floor  with  water,  she 
dragged  the  unconscious  man  across  the  sill 
and  closed  the  door. 

It  seemed  hours  to  her  as  she  sat  there 
drenched  and  white,  looking  down  at  the 
gray  head  dabbled  in  the  water,  as  if  it 
were  blood,  while  she  rubbed  the  cold  hands 
and  temples. 

The  wind  tore  through  the  house,  strip 
ping  the  curtains  from  the  windows,  and 


170  JASON  EDWARDS. 

the  pictures  and  little  ornaments  from  the 
walls,  littering  the  floor  with  broken  glass. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  roof  would  be  torn  from 
their  heads,  and  all  be  left  naked  to  the 
storm.  Mrs.  Edwards  and  Linnie  cowered, 
stunned  and  helpless,  in  the  corner,  while 
the  water  flooded  the  room,  and  hail 
stormed  on  the  roof. 

She  could  hear  the  sobbing  of  the  half- 
crazed  child  on  the  bed,  the  dim,  gray  light 
lit  by  flashes  of  blue  flame,  showed  her 
Mrs.  Edwards  with  Linnie  in  her  arms, 
staring  wildly  at  the  open  window.  She 
seemed  dumb  with  the  stress  of  her  horror. 
Alice  was  alone  with  her  father,  who 
seemed  to  be  dying,  or  dead. 

At  last  the  roar  changed  its  key;  from 
being  sharp,  harsh,  it  sank  to  a  deeper, 
softer  note,  as  the  hail  gave  place  to  rain, 
and  then  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  rain 
fell  so  fast  the  air  was  a  solid  cataract  of 
water.  In  turn,  this  died  out,  and  the 
thunder  went  bellowing  off  to  the  East. 

"Mother — Linnie — the  storm  is  over." 
Alice  shook  her  mother  by  the  shoulder,  as 
if  she  were  asleep. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  171 

"Oh,  he's  dead — I  know  he  is,"  she  said, 
in  utter  depth  of  passionless  despair. 

"No,  he  isn't.  Linnie,  you  must  run  to 
Mr.  Elliot's,  quick." 

She  roused  Linnie  and  started  her  out 
into  the  slackening  drizzle,  but  Mrs. 
Edwards  was  of  no  use  to  her.  She  still 
sat  in  that  dazed  and  helpless  way,  gazing 
at  the  desolation  around  her.  Edwards 
lay  in  a  sort  of  coma,  breathing  heavily, 
but  curiously  like  sleep. 

'  The  sky  lightened.  In  the  west  a  cres 
cent  of  sky,  flaming  as  burnished  copper, 
told  of  a  fair  sky  beyond.  Its  light 
seemed  a  bitter  mockery  to  the  girl, 
kneeling  beside  her  father  in  a  desolated 
home. 

In  thirty  minutes  the  storm  was  over, 
and  the  chickens  were  paddling  about  in 
the  pools  of  water  here  and  there  in  the 
hollows,  and  caw-cawing  gaily.  The  plain 
looked  deliciously  cool  and  moist,  the  lark's 
clear  piping  was  heard  in  a  kind  of  thanks 
giving  note,  and  only  a  practised  eye  could 
see  the  terrible  effect  of  the  hailstorm  on 
the  wheat. 


172  JASON  EDWARDS. 

Where  it  had  stood  tall  and  yellow  and 
hot  an  hour  ago,  it  now  lay  broken,  beaten 
to  the  ground,  wet,  tangled  and  twisted 
into  knots.  It  was  mangled  beyond  any 
possible  recovery;  escaping  the  drouth,  it 
was  now  trampled  into  the  muddy  earth. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  173 


VI. 


REEVES  rode  away  across  the  prairie  in 
a  turmoil  of  anger  and  sorrow.  He 
felt  wronged  and  cheated.  He  drove  furi 
ously  toward  the  town,  intending  to  take 
the  train,  but  as  he  rode  he  thought,  and 
thinking,  softened.  That  sweet  face,  the 
haunting  pathos  of  those  work-calloused 
hands,  those  sad  eyes,  came  over  him,  mak 
ing  him  shudder  and  groan. 

The  team  fell  into  a  walk,  his  head  sank 
low  as  he  went  over  the  whole  matter. 
Over  him  the  wide  blue  clouds  rose  unseen, 
and  far-off  lightning  flashed  silently  along 
the  vast  blue-black  mass  of  vapor  in  the 
west.  He  saw  nothing  outside.  He  was 
going  over  the  interview. 

How  pitiful  it  all  seemed  now !     He  had 
12 


174  JASON  EDWARDS. 

gone  to  her  with  such  expectation  of  suc 
cess.  She  loved  him  so,  she  could  not  con 
ceal  that,  and  yet  her  duty  to  her  father 
and  sister  were  insuperable  barriers.  His 
joy  and  buoyancy  of  greeting  had  a  ter^ 
rible  mockery  now,  as  he  remembered 
them. 

He  thought  of  his  own  father,  a  hard 
working  carpenter.  Would  he  have  gone 
to  live  on  his  son-in-law  as  long  as  he  had 
an  arm  to  swing  or  a  leg  to  stalk  about 
on  ?  No !  He  saw  clearly  now  the  feeling 
of  Edwards,  who  still  hoped  against  hope; 
his  soldierly  pride  not  permitting  him  to 
go  to  the  hospital  or  acknowledge  defeat. 

He  was  roused  by  a  peal  of  thunder,  and 
turning,  saw  that  terrible  vortex  of  clouds 
moving  down  upon  him.  With  a  sudden 
determination,  he  turned  his  horses  and 
drove  rapidly  back  toward  the  Edwards 
claim.  He  must  see  her  and  ask  her  for 
giveness  for  his  anger,  and — yes,  promise 
to  give  up  his  Boston  life  for  her  life. 

"Anything,  anything  for  her!"  he  said. 
But  the  storm  drove  him  into  Elliott's 
yard,  and  as  he  turned  into  an  open  shed 


JASON  EDWARDS.  175 

and  hitched  his  team,  Frank  Graham  came 
dashing  out  of  the  house. 

"Git  inside,  quick!  It's  goin'  to  rain 
an'  blow  great  shakes ! " 

As  they  ran  to  the  house,  they  saw 
Elliott  putting  boards  up  before  the 
windows. 

"What's  that  for?"  asked  Reeves. 

«  Hail,"  said  Frank  briefly.  «  See  ?  "  He 
pointed  out  of  the  door  at  the  back,  and  as 
Reeves  looked,  the  dash  of  hail  crashed 
on  the  roof,  and  for  the  next  twenty  min 
utes  conversation  was  impossible. 

Mrs.  Elliott,  a  tall  woman  with  a  thin, 
melancholy  face,  moved  about  in  the  dark 
ness,  lighting  a  lamp.  Elliott  laughed 
silently — or  at  least,  his  laugh  was  not 
heard.  The  judge  smoked  calmly,  Frank 
and  Reeves  stood  at  the  eastern  window, 
looking  out  at  the  cataract  of  water  and 
the  leaping  hail. 

Elliott  came  up  at  last,  and  shouted  in 
the  ear  of  Frank,  "This  knocks  the  wheat 
galley  west,"  and  carried  it  off  as  if  it  were 
all  a  great  joke.  As  they  all  stood  there, 
a  box,  barrels  and  a  tin  boiler,  together 


176  JASON  EDWARDS. 

with  pieces  of  boards  and  other  light  arti 
cles,  were  carried  by,  and  disappeared  in 
the  gray  flood. 

Occasionally  a  lightning  flash  laid  the 
ground  bare  to  the  sight,  the  grass  show 
ing  flat  as  if  rolled,  the  water  drifting 
before  the  wind,  the  leaping  globes  of  ice 
forming  a  terrifying  vista  to  be  lost  a 
moment  later  in  the  gray  gloom. 

At  last,  as  the  rain  began  to  cease  and 
the  roar  of  the  hail  to  die  out,  Elliott 
said — 

"If  this  don't  lay  some  o'  these  shanties 
out  flatter  'n  a  hoe-cake,  I  miss  my  guess." 

"Is  there  any  danger  to  Edwards' 
house?"  Eeeves  asked  anxiously. 

"No,  I  guess  not.  It's  built  pretty  solid. 
Still,  you  can't  tell,  these  cyclones  are  so 
damned  curious.  I've  seen  a  house  blowed 
clear  out  o'  sight,  and  a  hay-stack  right 
near  by  scarcely  touched.  There!  I  can 
see  the  house  now.  It's  all  right,  as  far  as 
I  can  see.  Looks  's  if  the  winders  was  out, 
that's  all.  If  they  didn't  put  something 
up  before  'm,  they  are,  you  can  bet  high 
on  that." 


JASON  EDWARDS.  Ill 

Reeves  was  now  so  uneasy  that  he  paced 
the  room,  waiting  for  the  rain  to  cease. 
His  fears  grew.  It  seemed  so  brutal  in 
him  to  have  left  Alice  at  such  a  time,  and 
he  was  ready  to  reproach  himself  with 
criminal  neglect. 

"There's  somebody  comin'  down  the 
road — looks  like  a  girl,"  said  Elliott  at 
the  window. 

"It  is  a  girl,"  said  Frank.  "It's  Linnie 
running  like  a  deer.  Something's  up,  sure's 
shootin'." 

He  rushed  out  into  the  road.  The  rain 
had  nearly  ceased,  and  the  girl  could  be 
plainly  seen. 

"Here,  Reeves,  jump  in!  We'll  meet 
her!" 

"  I'm  with  you,"  said  Reeves,  seizing  the 
horses  by  the  heads  and  backing  them  out 
of  the  shed.  By  the  time  they  had  wheeled 
them  into  the  road  Linnie,  white,  breath 
less,  horrified,  came  flying  into  the  yard. 

"Oh,  come  quick!  The  house  is  blown 
down  and  poppa's  killed.  Get  the  doctor, 
quick!" 

"Judge,  bring  the  doctor,"  said  Frank, 


178  JASON  EDWARDS. 

feeling  the  complete  truth  of  the  story  told 
by  Linnie's  face. 

"Git  in  here,"  he  called  to  the  girl. 
Reeves  reached  down  and  drew  her  in,  and 
in  an  instant  they  had  whirled  into  the 
road,  driving  at  a  tearing  run  toward  the 
shanty  a  mile  away. 

Linnie  lay  in  Reeves'  arms,  too  exhausted 
to  speak,  her  bright  eyes  turned  now  on 
the  flying  horses,  and  now  on  the  face  of 
the  driver. 

"Is  Alice  hurt?" 

"No — she's  all — right — it's  poppa." 

"The  house  seems  to  be  standing,"  Frank 
said. 

"It's  the  other  part — the  windows  are 
all  out,"  Linnie  answered. 

"See  that  grain,"  said  Frank,  nodding 
his  head  over  his  shoulder.  "Look's  like 
a  crop,  don't  it  ?  A  few  more  like  that  '11 
raise  a  crop  o'  suicides." 

As  they  dashed  up  to  the  door  of  the 
upright,  they  saw  the  yard  littered  with 
fragments  of  straw,  shavings,  boards,  fur 
niture,  and  through  the  door  Reeves  saw 
Alice  bending  over  her  father. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  179 

She  uttered  a  word  of  joy  as  she  saw 
him.  Then,  as  she  looked  around  the  room 
and  back  to  the  prostrate  figure  before  her, 
she  said  with  a  terrible  bitterness — 

"See  what  God  has  done!" 

Reeves  lifted  the  senseless  old  man  to  a 
place  on  the  bed,  and  fell  to  chafing  his 
hands  and  feet. 

"He  can't  stay  here — the  bed  is  wet. 
The  stove  is  filled  with  water,  an'  pipe 
blown  down,"  said  Frank.  "  There  ain't  any 
room  for  him  at  Elliott's.  There's  nothing 
to  do  but  take  him  down  to  my  house. 
Wrap  him  in  warm,  dry  quilts." 

"Help  me  get  his  wet  clothes  off,"  said 
Reeves.  "Alice,  are  there  any  dry  clothes 
in  the  house?" 

As  they  worked,  they  discussed  the  best 
thing  to  do.  Mrs.  Edwards  had  recovered 
a  little,  but  still  wore  a  dull  and  dazed 
look,  and  offered  little  help.  Elliott  came 
rushing  over,  and  offered  his  house,  of 
course,  but  Reeves  said — 

"If  he  must  be  moved  a  mile,  we  may 
as  well  take  him  to  Graham's.  We'll 
meet  the  doctor  quicker." 


180  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"He  may  die  on  the  way/'  Alice  cried 
in  an  agony  of  fear. 

"I  don't  think  so.  His  pulse  is  slow, 
but  regular.  It's  a  sort  of  coma — I've 
seen  something  like  it  before.  I  don't 
think  it  is  dangerous." 

The  sun  was  just  setting,  as  Reeves  and 
Alice  drove  slowly  off  down  the  road,  hav 
ing  in  the  open  carriage  the  death-like 
presence  of  Jason  Edwards.  Alice  sat 
beside  her  father,  watching  for  signs  of 
life,  fearing  each  moment  to  see  the  shadow 
of  death  on  the  rigid  face. 

That  ride  they  will  never  forget.  The 
deadly  white  face  of  the  wronged  and 
cheated  man  looking  toward  the  sky — the 
poor,  lax  hands  falling  empty — the  glory 
of  the  sunset,  the  piping  of  the  cheerful 
lark,  the  trill  of  the  cricket,  and  the  smell 
of  the  moist  and  tangled  wheat. 

Then  came  the  curious  faces  of  the  neigh 
bors,  the  falling  dusk  of  evening,  and  the 
flower-like  stars  opening  in  the  solemnity 
of  the  windless  sky.  Then  came  the  light 
of  the  town  into  view,  and  the  journey  was 
nearly  done,  and  the  two  young  spirits  in 


JASON  EDWARDS.  181 

the  stress  of  this  terrible  moment,  gazing 
at  each  other,  had  small  need  of  words. 
They  seemed  able  to  read  each  other's  souls. 
There  was  reliance,  trust  in  her  eyes,  and 
comfort  in  his  presence,  and  strength  and 
forbearance  in  the  eyes  of  Reeves. 

Once  he  lifted  one  of  the  empty  hands, 
so  calloused  and  cracked  and  lumpish  with 
toil. 

"  Poor  hands,"  he  said,  and  for  the  first 
time  since  the  coming  of  the  storm,  the 
girl  wept  freely.  Once  she  asked  him  how 
he  came  to  be  so  near,  and  he  told  her,  and 
said,  "I  was  coming  back  to  ask  forgive 
ness  for  my  brutal  anger." 

She  shook  her  head  and  looked  down  at 
the  silent  figure  stretched  on  the  blankets. 
It  was  a  sort  of  unfaithfulness  to  think  of 
anything  else  now,  and  he  perceived  it. 

When  kind  hands  lifted  the  weight  of 
her  father  from  her  knees,  she  was  numb 
with  the  cramping  position,  and  sick  with 
an  indefinable  loathing  and  despair.  She 
tottered  unsteadily  on  her  feet,  and  Reeves 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  helped  her  into 
the  house.  Mrs.  Graham,  with  an  infinite 


182  JASON  EDWARDS. 

compassion  on  her  beautiful,  matronly  face, 
received  her  on  her  bosom.  Strong  as  she 
was,  she  had  nearly  reached  the  limit  of 
her  strength. 

The  sun  came  up  next  morning  on  a 
cool,  sweet  landscape,  but  night  and  morn 
ing  were  alike  to  Jason  Edwards,  lying 
there  on  the  bed  charity  had  extended  to 
him.  The  sky  was  cloudless.  A  gentle 
wind  stirred  from  the  infinite  fresh  spaces 
of  the  west;  under  the  window  in  the  wet 
and  tangled  sunflowers  crickets  and  cicadas 
were  singing. 

Sitting  by  his  side,  Reeves  felt  again  the 
force  of  Nature's  forgetfulness  of  man. 
She  neither  loves  nor  hates.  Her  storms 
have  no  regard  for  life.  Her  smiling 
calms  do  not  recognize  death.  Sometimes 
her  storms  coincide  with  death,  sometimes 
her  calms  run  parallel  to  men's  desires. 
She  knows  not,  and  cares  nothing. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  183 


VII. 

BOOMTOWN  was  full  of  teams  the  next 
morning  by  ten  o'clock.  Men  from 
the  South  and  North  and  East  and  West 
hitched  up  and  drove  into  town  to  compare 
notes  and  see  how  matters  stood.  The 
Wamburger  grocery  was  full  of  brown  and 
grizzled  farmers,  swearing  or  laughing, 
according  to  their  temperaments.  Judge 
Balser's  office  was  also  full  of  men  who 
had  come  in  to  get  appraisements  on  the 
damage  to  their  crops,  the  judge  being  an 
agent  of  an  insurance  company. 

Out  by  Larson's  blacksmith  shop,  on 
Sheridan  Avenue,  there  was  a  crowd  of 
men  pitching  "  quates  " .  Elliott  was  there, 
and  Frank  Graham,  and  Tonguey  Thomp 
son,  who  usually  acted  as  judge  of  the 
game,  and  Hank  Whiting,  and  two  or 
three  more,  including  Larson,  the  black- 


184  JASON  EDWARDS. 

smith,  who  hammered  but  fitfully  on  his 
anvil,  the  game  being  so  exciting. 

The  game  was  proceeding.  For  quoits, 
they  used  horse-shoes,  and  for  pegs,  teeth 
from  an  old  harrow.  Elliott  was  stripped 
to  his  shirt,  and  his  shirt  was  open  at  the 
neck,  and  so  far  as  could  be  discovered,  he 
had  no  thought  save  to  win  the  game  and 
get  the  treat  on  the  other  fellow. 

"How's  Edwards  this  mornin'?"  two  or 
three  inquired,  as  Frank  joined  them. 

Johnson  came  along  the  street  with  a 
sickle  on  his  shoulder,  and  after  watching 
the  game  a  moment,  left  the  sickle  inside 
the  shop  and  went  up  to  his  old  antagonist, 
Euble,  who  was  seated  on  a  soap-box  at  the 
corner  of  the  shop.  Johnson  was  in  a  bad 
mood.  He  gave  Kuble  a  blow  on  the  back 
that  nearly  knocked  him  down. 

"Ain't  yeh  got  nothin'  to  do  but  this?" 

"No,  I  hain't/'  said  Ruble,  in  rising  rage. 

"Well,  yeh  might  pray  f'r  a  wind  to 
h'ist  the  grain.  Some  fields  look  as  if  a 
herd  of  elephunts  had  summered  into  'em." 

Elliott  and  Frank  Graham  were  having 
a  scuffle,  and  the  crowd  was  laughing 


JASON  EDWARDS.  185 

so  heartily  that  Johnson  was  forced  to 
raise  his  voice.  The  judge  stood  placidly 
smoking. 

"Old  Jason  Edwards'  grain  is  worse  'n 
mine — jest  pounded  clean  out  o'  sight  an' 
sound.  Yeh  couldn't  raise  it  with  Gabri 
el's  trumpet." 

"Can't  lay  this  to  the  administration,  or 
taxation  or  anything,  can  yeh?" 

"I'll  bet  I  can.  If  we  hadn't  give  away 
s'  much  land  to  the  railroad  an'  let  land- 
sharks  gobble  it  up,  an'  if  we'd  taxed  'em 
as  we  ought  to,  we  wouldn't  be  crowded 
way  out  here  where  it  can't  rain  without 
blowing  hard  enough  to  tear  the  ears  off 
a  cast-iron  bull-dog" — 

"At  it  again,"  said  Frank,  pointing  at 
Johnson,  who  was  gesticulating  violently. 

"  Why  don't  you  old  seeds  quit  quarrel- 
in  an' go  to  fightin' ?" 

"I'm  goin'  to  git  out  o'  this  God-for 
saken  country,"  said  Johnson,  bitterly, 
going  off  up  the  street. 

"Oh,  no,  you  won't,"  laughed  Frank. 
"You'll  be  braggin'  about  the  climate  in 
less  'n  two  days — I  know  yeh." 


186  JASON  EDWARDS. 

Reeves  was  studying  them,  and  thinking 
of  the  difference  between  their  laughter  and 
apparent  freedom  from  care,  and  the  ques 
tion  of  life  and  death  which  was  being 
worked  out  in  the  silent  room  he  had  just 
left. 

"How'd  you  leave  him?"  asked  Frank, 
coming  over  to  Reeves. 

"Not  much  change — doctor  don't  seem 
to  know  what  to  do.  If  he  don't  change 
for  the  better  soon,  I  shall  telegraph  to  St. 
Paul  for  a  physician.  By  the  way,  this 
scene  is  a  study  to  me.  I  can't  realize  that 
the  land  was  swept  last  night  by  a  terrible 
storm,  to  see  these  fellows  out  here,  cheer 
ful  as  crickets.  So  goes  the  world — com 
edy  and  tragedy  side  by  side." 

"Oh,  they'd  take  anything  so — I  mean 
these  fellers.  They's  always  a  set  of  these 
lahees,  myself  included,  who'd  laugh  if 
their  mother-in-law  died." 

Reeves  looked  out  on  the  glorious  land 
scape,  retaining  still  much  of  its  morning 
freshness — the  sky  just  specked  with  bits 
of  impalpable  white  vapor. 

"Your  climate  is  so  sinister  in  its  beauty, 


JASON  EDWARDS.  187 

so  delusive,  I  can't  realize  what  has  been 
done.  The  horror  of  last  night  is  like  an 
exaggeration  of  a  dream.  There  is  no 
receding  swell  this  morning,  as  there  would 
be  on  the  ocean,  to  hint  of  the  storm  just 
passed." 

"I  guess  Alice  Edwards  ain't  likely  to 
forget  it  right  away." 

Reeves  turned  and  put  his  hand  on 
Frank's  shoulder — 

"  It's  due  to  you  that  they  have  a  quiet 
room  and  careful" — 

"  Oh,  drop  that!  that's  nothin'." 

"I  guess  the  old  man's  work  is  about 
done,"  said  Reeves,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  Elliott  led  the  crowd  into  the  Oatbin 
saloon. 

"It  isn't  the  thing  to  be  altogether  sorry 
for,  either.  I  don't  suppose  he  ever  knew 
freedom  from  care — few  of  us  do.  Our 
whole  infernal  civilization  is  a  struggle.  We 
are  like  hunters  climbing  a  perpendicular 
cliff,  a  bottomless  gulf  below,  clinging 
wildly  to  tiny  roots  and  crevices,  and  toil 
ing  upward,  eyes  fixed  on  the  green  and 
alluring  slopes  above.  We  strain  and 


188  JASON  EDWARDS. 

strive,  now  slipping,  now  gaining,  while 
our  hair  whitens  with  the  agony  of  our 
aching,  failing  muscles.  One  by  one  we 
give  up  and  fall  with  curse  or  groan,  but 
the  others  keep  on,  not  daring  to  look 
down.  There  is  no  rest  from  the  fear  of 
fall,  save  in  the  black  depths  below. 
Graham,  the  most  of  us  will  never  know 
what  rest  is.  It  makes  me  savage  to  think 
of  men  like  Edwards  toiling  all  their  lives 
to  die  at  sixty,  unrewarded  and  unsatisfied." 

Frank  was  powerfully  moved,  and  his 
reply  was  as  characteristic  as  it  was  full 
of  meaning. 

"  Knocks  an  eye  out  of  the  American 
eagle,  don't  it?" 

"  Fine  morning,  after  the  shower,"  put 
in  the  judge,  sauntering  forward. 

"  Call  it  a  shower,  do  you  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes.  A  little  severe,  of  course  — 
grain  blown  down  a  little  here  and  there. 
Every  State  in  the  Union  liable  to  such. 
Damage  merely  nominal  —  wind'll  lift  it 
during  the  day." 

"  The  judge  has  just  the  same  tone,  you 
see,  that  these  reports  of  the  prosperity  of 


JASON  EDWARDS.  189 

the  West  have  when  issued  by  land-hold 
ers  and  mortgage  companies,"  commented 
Frank.  "  They  issued  one  last  week,  deny 
ing  the  poverty  of  the  country;  but  I 
noticed  it  was  signed  by  men  who  had 
land  to  rent  or  sell — bankers  or  mortgage 
companies." 

"  We've  noticed  that/'  Reeves  said. 

"  I'll  tell  yeh  one  thing  the  wind  won't 
lift,  Judge,  and  that's  the  mortgage  you 
hold  on  Jason  Edwards  and  the  rest  of  'em." 

"Gents,  come  in  an'  take  something" 
roared  Elliott  from  the  side  door  of  the 
saloon. 

"Don't  care  if  I  do — lemonade,"  said 
the  judge,  glad  of  the  diversion. 

Elliott  turned  his  head  and  spoke  to  the 
bar-keeper  within.  "Mix  one  o'  the 
judge's  lemonades.  Come  in,  Frank — 
to-day  won't  count.  Come  in,  Mr.  Reeves." 

"Every  day  counts  with  me,"  said 
Frank.  "If  you  want  to  shorten  y'r  life 
ten  years,  go  ahead.  Life  ain't  so  cheap 
as  that  with  me." 

"Well,  I  must  go  back  to  the  house  an* 
see  how  Edwards  is." 

18 


190  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"Ain't  it  singular  the  way  Mrs.  Edwards 
goes  on — sort  of  dazed?" 

"Well,  as  I  look  at  it  Mrs.  Edwards,  like 
Macbeth,  has  supped  full  of  horrors.  I 
don't  suppose  anything  could  bring  an  out 
cry  from  her.  It's  terrible  to  me  to  see 
her  go  about  in  that  numb  way.  Graham, 
I  almost  fear  for  Alice's  reason.  Her  life 
out  here  has  made  terrible  havoc  in  her 
girlhood." 

What  he  would  have  said  more  was 
stopped  by  the  return  of  the  crowd,  led 
by  Elliott  and  the  judge.  Elliott  was  talk 
ing  very  earnestly. 

The  crowd  burst  into  wild  laughter.  In 
the  midst  of  it  Johnson  returned  from 
up  the  street.  His  face  was  full  of  a 
strange  emotion.  He  silenced  them  with 
a  stern  gesture — 

"Say!  You  fellers  are  awful  chipper — 
but  just  look  there ! " 

They  all  looked  where  he  pointed.  Two 
men  were  bringing  a  third  man  down  the 
walk,  holding  him  lightly  by  the  elbows. 
Behind  them  came  a  woman  with  a  baby 
in  her  arms  and  a  little  one  toddling  at 


JASON  EDWARDS.  191 

her  side.  One  of  the  men  was  Major  Mul- 
lins,  a  tall  and  dignified  man,  with  flowing 
whiskers  and  clear  brown  eyes,  now  sad 
and  thoughtful. 

"There  goes  Charley  Severson,"  John 
son  went  on  in  the  same  bitter  voice. 
"One  o'  the  best  fellers  in  the  country, 
on  his  way  to  the  train  to  go  to  the  insane 
asylum — a  ravin'  maniac.  He  couldn't 
stand  t%e  strain.  He's  rich  now!" 

A  hush  fell  on  the  crowd  that  was  pain 
ful.  Tears  started  to  Keeves'  eyes  as  he 
looked  into  the  desolate  face  of  the  Nor 
wegian  girl.  The  little  one  at  her  side 
clung  to  her  skirts,  and  avoided  the  eye 
like  a  young  partridge.  But  the  man  was 
happy  at  last.  His  care  was  over.  He 
was  laughing  and  talking,  his  eyes  roving 
about — he  knew  no  one.  He  tugged  at 
the  major's  arm,  and  turned  toward  the 
silent  group  of  men — the  major  humored 
him. 

"Hallo,  fallars!  Yo'  gat  mae  latter? 
Ay  gaet  ten  tousant  dollars — ay  sail  mae 
horses — on  Yimtown.  Ay  gat  plows — ay 
go'n  sail  plows  hundert  tousant  dollar. 


192  JASON  EDWARDS. 

Ay  dam  reich,  yo'  bait  yo' !  Ay  go  Chicago. 
Ay  buy  more  horses — ay  gaet  money" — 

"Come,  Charley/'  said  the  major,  soft  as 
velvet.  "Come,  it's  time" — 

He  turned  suddenly,  a  wild  glare  in  his 
eyes. 

"Who  yo*  baen,  anyhow?  Ay  not  go 
vit  yo',  ay  bait ! " 

"We  must  go  to  Chicago  after  those 
horses,  Charley." 

The  maniac  hesitated  a  moment. 

"All  right — ay  go.  Ay  gaet  more 
horses — ay  sail  'em,  make  beeg  money" — 

With  the  incessant  talk  of  money,  they 
lured  him  on  toward  the  station.  Here 
was  something  which  surpassed  quoits  in 
interest. 

It  was  pitiful,  tragic  to  see  the  wife  and 
mother  stand  with  her  little  ones  about 
her,  seeking  her  husband's  eye,  and  finding 
only  a  swift,  unrecognizing  glare.  The 
chubby  little  flaxen-haired  baby  seemed 
somehow  to  divine  that  it  must  not  speak 
to  its  father,  and  it  stood  silent. 

Several  kind  women  and  neighbors  sur 
rounded  the  wife  and  tried  to  comfort  her, 


JASON  EDWARDS.  193 

but  there  was  no  comfort.  She  stood 
dumb,  wordless,  with  blank  face  of  infin 
ite  despair  and  suffering.  She  refused  to 
yield  her  infants,  shook  her  head  slowly, 
and  kept  her  eyes  upon  the  restless  man 
who  paced  up  and  down  the  board  walk, 
pouring  out  disconnected  accounts  of  imag 
inary  investments  which  had  made  him  a 
millionaire. 

He  was  apparently  perfectly  happy.  He 
laughed  easily.  His  fine  face  was  a  little 
flushed.  He  walked  with  a  grace  and  ease 
that  would  have  been  attractive,  if  it  were 
not  for  the  wildness  of  his  eyes. 

"A  product  of  our  civilization,"  said 
Beeves,  as  the  train  drew  up,  and  the  man 
was  coaxed  and  pushed  into  it. 

"  Sharley ! "  wailed  the  woman,  speaking 
for  the  first  time.  He  turned  at  her  voice, 
but  did  not  know  her.  She  extended  the 
baby  toward  him,  as  if  hoping  that  might 
reach  him.  "Sharley!" 

The  man  laughed  and  went  on,  and  the 
train  rolled  away. 

"What  is  civilization  with  all  its  glory 
and  grandeur  of  invention  worth  to  that 


J94  JASON  EDWARDS. 

woman?"   asked  Reeves,  when  he   could 
speak. 

"Nothing,"  replied  Frank,  and  they 
walked  in  silence,  a  terrible  indignation 
in  the  constriction  of  their  throats.  There 
were  half  a  dozen  loafers  around  the  black 
smith  shop,  pitching  quoits,  and  the  black 
smith  was  whistling  while  he  hammered 
on  Johnson's  sickle. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  195 


VIII. 

TASON  EDWARDS  could  hardly  be  said 
*J  to  have  awakened  from  that  strange, 
baffling  sleep  till  the  second  morning  after 
the  storm,  though  Reeves,  who  watched 
with  him  the  first  and  second  nights  as 
well,  said  he  stirred  and  opened  his  eyes 
twice,  but  apparently  without  seeing  or 
realizing  anything. 

When  the  cool  dawn  of  the  second 
morning  came,  Reeves,  weary  with  watch 
ing,  went  to  the  window  and  gazed  afar 
out  on  the  beautiful  plain.  He  could  hear 
the  clanging  of  the  engine-bells  further 
down  town,  and  the  clatter  of  'busses  as 
they  took  early  passengers  down  to  the 
St.  Paul  train.  The  air  was  marvel- 
ously  clear,  and  the  sky  was  cloudless, 
save  the  bands  of  smoke  from  engines  or 
chimneys.  It  was  only  by  an  effort,  or 


196  JASON  EDWARDS. 

by  a  glance  at  the  old  man  lying  deathly 
still,  that  he  could  persuade  himself  of  the 
reality  of  that  storm. 

He  was  still  standing  there,  thinking  it 
all  over  for  the  twentieth  time,  when 
Frank  Graham  came  in,  and  motioned  to 
him  to  come  out  into  the  sitting-room 
adjoining. 

"Now,  I'll  stay  here  while  you  go  out 
and  catch  a  snack.  I'll  give  you  a 
pointer — go  to  the  restaurant  at  the  cor 
ner  down  this  street  and  get  a  cup  of  coffee 
to  kind  o'  keep  you  steady,  and  I'll  have 
breakfast  ready  by  six-thirty.  But — don't 
let  anyone  hear  us — my  wife  ain't  just  up 
on  coffee — see?  And  they  are  down  there. 
The  walk'll  do  you  good.  Then  come  back, 
eat  a  beefsteak  and  go  to  bed." 

Reeves  was  glad  to  get  out  into  the 
inexpressibly  sweet  and  peaceful  morning. 
To  look  up  at  the  sky  which  no  storm  can 
permanently  impress,  and  hear  the  cheer 
ful  voices  of  nature's  never-complaining 
children,  after  a  night  of  gloomy  philoso 
phizing,  was  sweet  as  sleep. 

Frank,  left  alone,  peeped  in  at  the  silent 


JASON  EDWARDS.  197 

figure,  drew  a  morning  paper  from  his 
pocket,  and  sank  into  one  of  the  gaily 
upholstered  chairs.  The  room  was  cheer 
ful  in  a  determined  sort  of  way.  A 
chromo  or  two  on  the  wall,  bright-colored 
carpet,  organ  of  an  ambitious  pattern, 
centre-table  supporting  the  family  Bible, 
and  a  basket  of  stereopticon  views  on  a 
bright-colored  tidy.  It  was  prosperous  and 
American  in  its  entire  appearance.  Frank 
took  a  pride  in  it  from  the  fact  that  his 
wife  did  the  planning  mainly. 

He  looked  up  at  hearing  the  door  open, 
and  Alice,  pale  but  resolute  and  self-con 
tained,  entered. 

"  Good  morning,  Mr.  Graham.  Did  you 
— is  he  still — sleeping?" 

"He's  layin'  there  perfectly  still,  and 
seems  to  be — comfortable." 

Alice  went  into  the  bedroom  and  bent 
above  her  father's  bed,  and  kissed  him 
softly  on  the  hair. 

"Did  you  see  the  doctor  when  he  was 
here  last  night?"  she  asked,  returning  and 
closing  the  door.  "What  did  he  say?" 

"Not   much   of    anything;    pinched   his 


198  JASON  EDWARDS. 

chin  and  looked  wise.  I  take  it  he's  in  no 
present  danger.  Sort  of  nervous  prostra 
tion — very  fashionable  just  now." 

"When  did  Walter  go  away?" 

"  Just  now." 

"Why,  he  promised  to  call  you  and  be 
relieved  at  midnight." 

"Well,  he  didn't — he  stayed  here  all 
night.  Just  gone  out  to  catch  a  cup  o' 
coffee.  Be  back  soon." 

Alice  was  going  back  into  the  other 
room,  as  she  stopped  and  said,  "Did  he 
look  tired?" 

"Well,  yes — he  looked  ugly  as  a  bear 

with  a  sore  ear  in  fly-time.     Now,  let  me 

.advise  you,"  he  said,  rising,  significantly. 

"Whatever  plan  he  makes,  you  carry  out — 

see?" 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Just  what  I  say,"  said  Frank,  mysteri 
ously,  as  he  went  out. 

Alice  was  busied,  moving  about  with  a 
cloth  and  brush,  silently  removing  the  dis 
order  of  the  night,  when  Eeeves  re-entered, 
and  stood  looking  at  her  for  a  little  time. 

She  was  so  wifely  in  her  whole  air,  so 


JASON  EDWARDS.  199 

sweet  and  strong,  his  heart  went  out  to  her 
as  never  before,  and  yet,  because  she  was 
strong  and  sweet,  he  knew  how  difficult  it 
would  be  to  bring  her  to  accept  his  plans. 

She  turned  and  saw  him,  and  her  face 
lighted  into  a  sort  of  sad  smile  that  did  not 
reach  the  lips,  but  she  came  into  the  little 
parlor  and  closed  the  door.  "  Oh,  Walter, 
how  good — how  generous  you  are!" 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,  I  assure  you/' 
answered  Reeves,  as  he  seized  her  out 
stretched  hand.  "I'm  selfish  as  a  lover. 
We're  all  egoists  at  bottom,  even  in  our 
sacrifices — I'm  no  exception." 

"Do  you  think  he  will  live?"  she  cried 
eagerly,  ignoring  his  deeper  meaning. 

" I  do." 

"Oh,  what  a  load  that  lifts  from  my 
heart!  I've  found  out  how  you  obey  my 
orders.  Oh,  what  a  dreadful  two  days  this 
has  been!" 

"What  a  dreadful  four  years  this  has 
been!"  Eeeves  replied,  meaningly. 

"What  would  we  have  done  without 
you?"  she  said,  and  her  voice  quivered. 

"What    will    I    do    without    my    girl? 


200  JASON  EDWARDS. 

Alice — my  sweetheart!  Are  you  satis 
fied?  Will  you  give  up  the  struggle?" 
He  drew  her  to  him,  but  she  remained  with 
eyes  downcast  in  thought.  He  went  on 
tenderly — 

"It  has  been  a  hopeless  struggle  from 
the  first.  I  offer  help  and  a  home — you 
are  helpless  and  homeless.  Will  you 
refuse  it  again?" 

"My  first  duty  is  to  my  parents,"  said 
Alice  evasively,  still  undecided.  "  Think 
of  the  unutterable  tragedy  of  their  lives ! " 

"Don't  evade  me,"  he  persisted  firmly. 
"You  sha'n't  evade  me.  Will  you  take  my 
help  and  my  home?  Don't  look  away — 
look  at  me!  Are  you  ready  to  come  to 
me — you  and  yours?" 

Alice  stood  for  a  moment  silent,  her 
pride  and  resolution  giving  way.  She 
turned  to  him — 

"If  I  am  worth  so  much." 

"So  much!  You're  worth  acres  of  dia 
monds!"  he  caught  her  face  between  his 
hands  and  kissed  it. 

She  smiled  a  little — "You  say  so  now." 

"And  I  say  so  ever/'  he  went   on   in 


JASON  EDWARDS.  201 

triumphant  strain.  "Now  let  Rome  in 
Tiber  melt,  and  the  wide-arched  empire — 
what's  the  rest  of  it?  Ah,  Alice,  what 
a  tragedy  had  been  had  I  married  one  of 
those  other  Boston  girls  during  these 
years." 

"  I  was  afraid  you  would/'  she  said  smil 
ing  a  little.  "I  couldn't  blame  you — I 
had  no  claim  on  you." 

Reeves  gave  a  profound  and  expressive 
sigh.  "All  that  saved  me  was  the  tradi 
tional  constitution  of  the  masculine  heart. 
The  more  I  couldn't  get  you  the  more  I 
wanted  you — it's  the  way." 

"  According  to  that  reasoning,  I've  done 
wrong  to  promise  anything  now." 

"That's  a  <non  sequitor',"  he  replied 
quickly.  "  You're  mine  now." 

«Yes— but"  — 

"But  me  no  buts — I  won't  stand  it!" 

"But  father  is  so  inflexible;  he  hates 
charity  so,  he  may  not  consent." 

"Trust  the  whole  matter  to  me.  I'll 
come  in  here  as  a  sort  of  special  prov 
idence — nothing  flatters  a  man  more  than 
to  be  a  sort  of  lieutenant  to  God.  I've 


202  JASON  EDWARDS. 

been  waiting  for  the  chance  for  years." 
He  softened,  as  he  thought  of  it.  "Ah, 
Alice,  what  happy  years  we've  wasted, 
just  on  account  of  his  pride  and  your 
willfulness." 

"It  was  not  willfulness — it  was" — 

"I'll  retract— I'll  retract!"  he  cried 
hastily.  "It  was  heroism,  only — forget  it 
now.  Let  the  hand  of  labor  swell  and  the 
weary  head  bow — let  the  wind  lay  hard 
on  the  icy  plain,  and  the  hail  of  summer 
trample  the  wheat — let  the  rush  of  trade 
go  on  in  its  granite  grooves — you  are  out 
of  the  press.  My  dearest,  my  life's  work 
is  to  keep  you  safe  from  sorrow,," 

Alice  was  sad  again.  Her  eyes  were 
deeply  thoughtful,  the  rising  sun  moving 
to  the  southward  threw  a  square  of  light 
upon  her  head,  bringing  out  the  grave, 
strong  lines  of  her  face.  When  she  spoke, 
she  stood  for  the  modern  woman  who 
wishes  to  do,  whose  individuality  is  too 
high  to  enable  her  to  tamely  submit  to 
social  limitation. 

"I  am  out  of  the  press,  but  not  by  my 
own  merits."  He  started  to  speak — 


JASON  EDWARDS.  203 

"  Hush !  You  know  what  I  mean.  I  hate 
charity,  and  after  all,  I'm  saved  by  a  sort 
of  charity.  I'll  try  to  be  patient,  but  the 
problem  is  not  solved  for  us — it's  only  put 
off." 


204  JASON  EDWAEDS. 


IX. 

THEY  were  all  looking  down  at  him 
when  Jason  Edwards  opened  his  eyes, 
clear  and  quiet.  Alice  and  her  mother 
fell  on  their  knees  beside  the  bed  in  a 
transport  of  relief.  Eeeves  stood  looking 
at  them  all.  Linnie  alone  was  wanting  to 
make  up  the  group.  She,  silenced  by 
Reeves'  finger,  stood  in  the  door  poised, 
waiting. 

Edwards  moved  his  lips  painfully  before 
speaking  in  a  husky,  monotonous  tone — 
"Is  the  storm  passed  off?" 

"All  quiet  and  beautiful,  Jason." 

He  looked  around,  put  one  hand  feebly 
up  to  Alice's  face — "Where's  my  baby  ?" 

"Here  I  be,  poppa,"  cried  Linnie,  bound 
ing  forward,  and  almost  leaping  upon  the 
bed,  where  she  snuggled  down  beside  him. 
His  eyes  rested  on  Reeves  again. 

"  How  d'  do,  Mr.  Reeves  ?    I  didn't  know 


JASON  EDWARDS.  205 

yell."  He  was  puzzled  at  the  room.  "This 
ain't  Boston?" 

"  This  is  Frank  Graham's  house,"  replied 
Alice.  Edwards  seemed  now  to  recollect, 
and  his  face  darkened. 

"Then  our  house  was  bio  wed  down?" 

"Yes,  father — the  shed  was  carried 
away  and  all  the  windows  broken." 

"An*  the  wheat  cut  to  pieces?" 

"Yes,  Jason — worse  'n  you  can  think." 

His  face  grew  bitter,  and  after  a  long 
pause,  he  said,  "Then  I  may  jest  as  well 
die.  It  ain't  no  use — I  can't  never  git  up 
with  all  them  mortgages" — 

"Oh,  Jason,  Jason!"  pleaded  his  wife. 

"Have  courage  for  our  sakes,  father," 
said  Alice. 

"  I'd  only  be  a  burden  to  you  instead  of 
a  blessin',"  the  steady  voice  went  on.  "I'm 
old— old!  So  old  I  don't  feel  like  m'self 
— an'  it  was  all  tramped  down?"  he  said 
to  Reeves,  with  a  rising  reflection. 

"All  destroyed.  The  center  of  the 
storm" — 

"Of  course,"  broke  in  the  despairing, 
infinitely-bitter  voice.  "  God  and  man  has 

14 


206  JASON  EDWARDS. 

joined  hands  to  break  me  down."  He 
went  on  after  a  pause,  speaking  in  a  slow 
monotone.  "They  drove  me  out  o'  Deny, 
an'  they  drove  me  out  o'  Boston,  an'  they'll 
drive  me  out  o'  here.  They  ain't  but  one 
place  left — jest  one  little  spot — made  an' 
pervided  fr  such  as  me — an'  that's  the 
grave.  An'  they'd  crowd  me  out  o'  that 
if  they  could — but  they  can't.  They  ain't 
no  landlords  in  the  grave." 

All  were  weeping,  Alice  was  stroking 
his  hair,  Linnie  sobbing  by  his  side.  Mrs. 
Edwards  rose  hastily. 

"  I'll  go  an*  get  yeh  some  tea,  Jason  — 
that'll  hearten  you  up  some."  As  she 
went  out,  Alice  said — 

"  Linnie,  run  and  get  an  extra  pillow  to 
prop  him  up.  I'll  get  some  water."  As 
they  went  out,  Edwards  said,  "I  guess  I'll 
try  to  set  up." 

Reeves  stepped  forward  to  assist  him, 
when  he  was  stopped  by  the  look  of  fear 
and  horror  on  the  old  man's  face.  He  was 
looking  down  toward  his  feet,  and  had  the 
appearance  of  a  man  struggling  to  extricate 
himself  from  a  trap. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  207 

"My  God!"  he  whispered  hoarsely,  as 
the  truth  came  to  him.  6I  can't  move  my 
feet — I'm  paralyzed ! " 

"No,  no!  Not  that!  It's  only  tempo 
rary — it's  caused  by  lying  still" — 

The  old  sufferer  silenced  him  with  a 
look  —  the  women  were  returning — "Don't 
tell  them,"  he  commanded,  and  fell  back 
upon  his  pillow. 

This  terrible  visitation,  seemingly  so 
mysterious  and  malignant,  was  very  natu 
ral  and  might  have  been  inferred.  A  small 
blood  vessel  had  been  ruptured  in  the 
brain,  and  a  clot  had  formed,  resting  upon 
that  part  of  the  brain  controlling  the  feet. 
It  might  be  finally  absorbed — it  might 
extend  until  it  affected  the  whole  of 
one  side  of  the  body.  The  whole  out-come 
was  problematical. 

Reeves  could  have  wept  every  time  he 
met  the  eyes  of  the  old  man,  as  the  women 
moved  about  him.  He  seemed  to  be  afraid 
that  they  would  find  out  this  last  great 
blow.  He  said  little,  and  at  last  grew 
drowsy  and  slept.  Reeves  was  also  think 
ing,  and  as  he  went  with  Frank  for  a  spin 


208  JASON  EDWARDS. 

in  the  open  air,  he  could  not  shake  off  the 
feeling  that  he  had  been  in  the  presence  of 
a  typical  American  tragedy — the  collapse 
of  a  working  man. 

The  common  fate  of  the  majority  of 
American  farmers  and  mechanics — dying 
before  their  time.  Going  to  pieces  at 
forty,  fifty  or  sixty  years  of  age,  from 
under-pay  and  over-work.  "Yes,  Edwards 
is  a  type,"  he  concluded  with  Graham. 

The  next  day,  as  Jason  was  sitting  in 
his  easy  chair,  with  Linnie  by  his  side,  and 
Alice  moving  about  the  room,  Reeves 
entered.  The  old  toiler,  a  mere  hulk  of  his 
once  magnificent  manhood,  looked  at  him 
steadily  and  unsmilingly,  and  said  slowly, 
as  Reeves  came  to  his  side  and  stood 
silently  waiting — 

"You've  been  a  good  friend  to  us  all, 
young  man — you've  been  patient — you'll 
never  git  y'r  pay  fr  it." 

Reeves  put  out  his  arm  and  stopped 
Alice,  as  she  was  passing. 

"Yes,  I  will— here." 

"I  don't  like  to  pay  yeh  that  way,"  said 
Edwards,  steadily. 


JASON  EDWARDS.  209 

"  Why  not  *  " 

u  Because  it  ain't  right  —  I  don't  like  to 
pay  my  debts  that  way  —  I  don't  like  to 
sell  my  girl  so  cheap." 

"  Father !  "  exclaimed  Alice. 

Reeves  checked  her.  "  I  understand  him 
- —  it  is  cheap." 

"  It  hurts  me,  but  it's  got  to  be  done," 
the  father  went  on.  "I've  got  through. 
If  I  could  jest  kind  o'  crawl  back  to  the  old 
town  where  I  could  see  a  green  hill  once 
more,  an'  hear  the  sound  o'  the  river,  I'd 
kind  o'  die  easier  some  way." 

"  Listen  to  me  a  moment,"  broke  in 
Reeves  eagerly.  "  I'm  going  to  take 
things  into  my  own  hands  now.  I'm 
going  to  take  you  all  to  the  East.  I've 
got  an  empty  house  standing  back  there, 
and  from  this  time  forward,  my  home  is 
your  home.  You  needn't  worry  about 
your  future  —  only  enjoy  "  — 

Edwards  stopped  him  with  a  gesture. 
He  was  broken,  but  not  subdued.  The 
pride  rose  in  him  yet  —  the  pride  of  an 
American  who  will  never  surrender  his 
freedom  while  he  lives. 


210  JASON  EDWARDS. 

"  Hold  on,  young  man !  I'm  sixty  years 
of  age.  For  fifty  years  I've  traveled,  an' 
I've  always  paid  my  way,  up  to  this  day. 
I've  earned  every  dollar  I  ever  had  with 
these  hands" — he  held  up  his  trembling, 
crooked  fingers.  "I  never  was  beholden 
to  any  man  for  a  meal  o'  vittles,  an'  I 
wouldn't  be  now,  if  I  was  alone." 

He  lay  silent  for  a  moment,  his  face 
working,  the  tears  running  down  his 
wrinkled  face. 

"I'm  a  failure — but  don't  talk  to  me  of 
en  joy  in' — a  pauper!" 

Alice  leaped  up.    "  You're  not  a  pauper ! " 

"  He's  a  hero ! "  exclaimed  Reeves,  with 
kindling  eyes.  "He  has  fought  heroically. 
No  battle  can  test  the  courage  of  a  man  so 
much  as  this  endless  struggle  against  the 
injustice  of  the  world — this  silent,  cease 
less  war  against  hunger  and  cold."  He 
bent  over  Jason  now,  and  his  voice  was 
indescribably  winning.  "I  understand.  I 
know  how  hard  it  is  for  a  brave  man  to  go 
to  the  rear.  I've  heard  my  father  say  that 
men  used  to  tie  up  their  own  wounds  and 
fight  on,  streaming  with  blood,  rather  than 


JASON  EDWARDS.  211 

be  taken  to  the  rear,  and  that  when  at  last 
they  fell  and  the  column  passed  on,  they'd 
wave  their  bandaged  arms  and  shout,  wav 
ing  their  comrades  into  the  cannon-smoke. 
Now  to  me,  you're  a  soldier  fighting  a 
greater  and  fiercer  battle  than  the  Wilder 
ness — a  battle  as  wide  as  the  world,  in 
which  women  and  children  fight  and  die. 
You  are  old  and  disabled — let  me  carry 
you  to  the  rear.  Let  me  take  you  back  to 
Derry." 

"Yes,  father,"  pleaded  Alice,  "my  cour 
age  is  gone — I  can't  fight  alone." 

Edwards  tried  twice  before  he  spoke. 
"I  surrender.  I'm  beat."  Alice  flung  her 
arms  about  his  neck. 

"For  your  sakes  I  give  up,"  he  went  on; 
"but  it  hurts — it  hurts.  I'm  like  an  old 
broken  scythe  ready  to  be  hung  up  to 
rust  in  the  rain.  I  ain't  any  use  to  you 
now,  Jennie.  Young  man,  here's  my 
hand.  Take  her  back  to  Boston,  where 
she  belongs,  and  take  me  back  to  Derry,  if 
I'm  worth  so  much,  an'  let  me  die  there. 
That's  all  I  ask  for  myself — it  ain't  much 
— I  can't  die  out  here  on  this  prairie,  with 


212  JASON  EDWARDS. 

no  trees  to  be  buried  under.  I  feel  's  if  I 
couldn't  rest  there — and  rest  is  the  sweet 
est  thing  in  the  world  for  a  man  like  me. 
I  can't  afford  to  lose  that." 

Beeves  stood  up,  his  face  beamed.  "  You 
are  doing  me  the  favor/'  and  he  quoted 
from  Shelley — 

"  The  world  is  weary  of  the  past, 
The  day  of  justice  blooms  at  last." 

But  Edwards,  with  the  mist  of  coming 
night  in  his  eyes  and  the  numbness  of 
death  in  his  limbs,  could  not  thrill  to  the 
young  man's  enthusiasm.  He  could  only 
try  to  be  patient  and  wait  for  death 
calmly.  Life  had  brought  him  nothing — 

death  had  no  terror. 

****** 

When  they  entered  Massachusetts  soil, 
Jason  roused  up  and  asked  to  be  propped 
up  so  that  he  could  look  out.  The  train 
was  rushing  along  a  brawling  stream 
between  rocky,  rounded,  wooded  hills. 
The  landscape  was  as  fresh  as  June  with 
recent  rains,  but  here  and  there,  amid  the 


JASON  EDWARDS.  213 

the  greens,  was  a  dash  of  color  that  showed 
the  ripeness  of  August.  The  distant  hills 
stood  purple-blue  against  the  red  of  the 
morning  sky.  The  still  pools  were  starred 
with  lilies,  and  in  their  clear,  still  nooks 
reflected  the  sky  and  wood  with  marvelous 
clearness. 

"How  do  you  feel  this  morning?"  asked 
Eeeves  cheerily. 

Edwards  looked  across  the  aisle  of  the 
beautiful  car,  the  sun  was  streaming  across 
the  heads  of  his  daughters.  He  did  not 
feel  strong  enough  to  speak,  but  he  smiled. 


THE 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

BY  A.  CONAN    DOYLE. 
Uniform  edition.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50  per  volume. 

T  TNCLE  BERN  AC.       A    Romance  of  the  Empire. 

*-'     Illustrated. 

This  brilliant  historical  romance  pictures  Napoleon's  threatened  invasion 
of  England  when  his  forces  were  encamped  at  Boulogne.  The  story  abounds 
in  dramatic  incidents,  and  the  adventures  of  the  hero  will  be  followed  with 
intense  interest  by  a  multitude  of  readers. 

ODNE  Y  STONE.     Illustrated. 

"  A  remarkable  book,  worthy  of  the  pen  that  gave  us  '  The  White  Company,' 
'  Micah  Clarke,'  and  other  notable  romances."  —  London  Daily  News. 

"  A  notable  and  very  brilliant  work  of  genius."  —  London  Speaker. 

"  '  Rodney  Stone  '  is,  in  our  judgment,  distinctly  the  best  of  Dr.  Conan  Doyle's 
novels.  .  .  .  There  are  few  descriptions  in  fiction  that  can  vie  with  that  race  upon  the 
Brighton  road."  —  London  Times. 


H^HE  EXPLOITS  OF  BRIGADIER   GERARD. 

•*•       A  Romance  of  the^Life  of  a  Typical  Nafokonic  Soldier.     Illus 
trated. 

"  The  brigadier  is  brave,  resolute,  amorous,  loyal,  chivalrous  ;  never  was  a  foe  mor-- 
ardent  in  battle,  more  clement  in  victory,  or  more  ready  at  need.  .  .  .  Gallantry,  humoi, 
martial  gayety,  moving  incident,  make  up  a  really  delightful  book."  —  London  Times. 

"  May  be  set  down  without  reservation  as  the  most  thoroughly  enjoyable  book  that 
Dr.  Doyle  has  ever  published."  —  Boston  Beacon. 


STARK    MUNRO    LETTERS.     Being  a 
•*       Series  of  Twelve   Letters  written  by  STARK  MUNRO,  M.  B., 
to  his  friend  and  former  fellow-student,  Herbert  Swanborough, 
of  Lowell,  Massachusetts,  during   the  years  1881-1884.     Illus 
trated. 

"  Cullingworth,  ...  a  much  more  interesting  creation  than  Sherlock  Holmes,  and 
I  pray  Dr.  Doyle  to  give  us  more  of  him."  —  Richard  le  Gallienne,  in  the  London  Star. 
"  'The  Stark  Munro  Letters'  is  a  bit  of  real  literature.  ...  Its  reading  will  be  an 
epoch-making  event  in  many  a  life."  —  Philadelphia  Evening  Telegraph. 

DOUND    THE   RED    LAMP.      Being  Facts  and 

•*•  *•     Fancies  of  Medical  Life. 

"Too  much  can  not  be  said  in  praise  of  these  strong  productions,  that  to  read, 
keep  one's  heart  leaping  to  the  throat,  and  the  mind  in  a  tumult  of  anticipation  to  the 
end.  .  .  .  No  series  of  short  stories  in  modern  literature  can  approach  them."  —  Hart 
ford  Times. 

"If  Dr.  A.  "Conan  Doyle  had  not  already  placed  himself  in  the  front  rank  of  living 
English  writers  by  '  The  Refugees,'  and  other  of  his  larger  stories,  he  would  surely  do 
so  by  these  fifteen  short  tales."  —  New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

D.   APPLETON  AND  COMPANY.  NEW  YORK. 


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STEPHEN   CRANE'S  BOOKS. 
'IT  HE  THIRD  VIOLET.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.00. 

Mr.  Crane's  new  novel  is  a  fresh  and  delightful  study  of  artist  life 
in  the  city  and  the  country.  The  theme  is  worked  out  with  the  author's 
characteristic  originality  and  force,  and  with  much  natural  humor.  In  sub 
ject  the  book  is  altogether  different  from  any  of  its  predecessors,  and  the 
author's  marked  success  proves  his  breadth  and  the  versatility  of  his  great 
talent. 


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HE  LITTLE  REGIMENT,   and  Other  Episodes 
of  the  American  Civil  War.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.00. 

"  In  '  The  Little  Regiment '  we  have  again  studies  of  the  volunteers  waiting  impa 
tiently  to  fight  and  fighting,  and  the  impression  of  the  contest  as  a  private  soldier  hears, 
sees,  and  feels  it,  is  really  wonderful.  The  reader  has  no  privileges.  He  must,  it  seems, 
take  his  place  in  the  ranks,  and  stand  in  the  mud,  wade  in  the  river,  fight,  yell,  swear, 
and  sweat  with  the  men.  He  has  some  sort  of  feeling,  when  it  is  all  over,  that  he  has 
been  doing  just  these  things.  This  sort  of  writing  needs  no  praise.  It  will  make  its 
way  to  the  hearts  of  men  without  praise." — New  York  Times. 

"  Told  with  a  verve  that  brings  a  whiff  of  burning  powder  to  one's  nostrils.  .  .  . 
In  some  way  he  blazons  the  scene  before  our  eyes,  and  makes  us  feel  the  very  impetus 
of  bloody  war."—  Chicago  Evening  Post. 


AGGIE:    A     GIRL     OF     THE     STREETS. 

i2mo.     Cloth,  75  cents. 


M 

"  By  writing  '  Maggie '  Mr.  Crane  has  made  for  himself  a  permanent  place  in  lit 
erature.  .  .  .  Zola  himself  scarcely  has  surpassed  its  tremendous  portrayal  of  throb 
bing,  breathing,  moving  life." — New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"  Mr.  Crane's  story  should  be  read  for  the  fidelity  with  which  it  portrays  a  life 
that  is  potent  on  this  island,  along  with  the  best  of  us.  It  is  a  powerful  portrayal,  and, 
if  somber  and  repellent,  none  the  less  true,  none  the  less  freighted  with  appeal  to  those 
who  are  able  to  assist  in  righting  wrongs." — New  York  Times. 


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HE  RED  BADGE  OF  COURAGE.     An  Episode 
of  the  American  Civil  War.     I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Never  before  have  we  had  the  seamy  side  of  glorious  war  so  well  depicted.  .  .  . 
The  action  of  the  story  throughout  is  splendid,  and  all  aglow  with  color,  movement, 
and  vim.  The  style  is  as  keen  and  bright  as  a  sword-blade,  and  a  Kipling  has  done 
nothing  better  in  this  line." — Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"  There  is  nothing  in  American  fiction  to  compare  with  it.  ...  Mr.  Crane  has 
added  to  American  literature  something  that  has  never  been  done  before,  and  that  is, 
in  its  own  peculiar  way,  inimitable." — Boston  Beacon. 

"  A  truer  and  completer  picture  of  war  than  either  Tolstoy  or  Zola."— London  Ntw 
Review. 


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HE  REDS  OF  THE  MIDI.  An  Episode  of  the 
French  Revolution.  By  FELIX  GRAS.  Translated  from  the, 
Proven9al  by  Mrs.  CATHARINE  A.  JANVIER.  With  an  Intro 
duction  by  THOMAS  A.  JANVIER.  With  Frontispiece.  I2mo. 
Cloth,  $1.50. 

"It  is  doubtful  whether  in  the  English  language  we  have  had  a  more  powerful, 
impressive,  artistic  picture  of  the  French  Revolution,  from  the  revolutionist's  point  of 
view,  than  that  presented  in  Felix  Gras's  '  The  Reds  of  the  Midi.'  .  .  .  Adventures 
follow  one  another  rapidly  ;  splendid,  brilliant  pictures  are  frequent,  and  the  thread  of 
a  tender,  beautiful  love  story  winds  in  and  out  of  its  pages." — New  York  Mail  and 
Express. 

'"The  Reds  of  the  Midi'  is  a  red  rose  from  Provence,  a  breath  of  pure  air  in 
the  stifling  atmosphere  of  present-day  romance — a  stirring  narrative  of  one  of  the  most 
picturesque  events  of  the  Revolution  It  is  told  with  all  the  strength  of  simplicity 
ind  directness ;  it  is  warm  and  pulsating,  and  fairly  trembles  with  excitement." — 
Chicago  Record. 

"  To  the  names  of  Dickens,  Hugo,  and  Erckmann-Chatrian  must  be  added  that  of 
FeMx  Gras,  as  a  romancer  who  has  written  a  tale  of  the  French  Revolution  not  only 
possessing  historical  interest,  but  charming  as  a  story.  A  delightful  piece  of  literature, 
of  a  rare  and  exquisite  flavor." — Buffalo  Express. 

"No  more  forcible  presentation  of  the  wrongs  which  the  poorer  classes  suffered  in 
France  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  has  ever  been  put  between  the  covers  of 
a  book." — Boston  Budgei. 

"  Every  page  is  alive  with  incidents  or  scenes  of  the  time,  and  any  one  who  reads 
it  will  get  a  vivid  picture  that  can  never  be  forgotten  of  the  Reign  of  Terror  in  Paris." 
— San  Francisco  Chronicle. 

"  The  author  has  a  rare  power  of  presenting  vivid  and  lifelike  pictures.  He  is  a 
true  artist.  .  .  .  His  warm,  glowing,  Provencal  imagination  sees  that  tremendous 
battalion  of  death  even  as  the  no  less  warm  and  glowing  imagination  of  Carlyle  saw  it." 
— London  Daily  Chronicle. 

"Of  The  Reds  of  theMidi '  itself  it  is  safe  to  predict  that  the  story  will  become  one 
of  the  most  widely  popular  stories  of  the  next  few  months.  It  certainly  deserves  such 
appreciative  recognition,  for  it  throbs  with  vital  interest  in  every  line.  .  .  .  The  charac 
ters  are  living,  stirring,  palpitating  human  beings,  who  will  glow  in  the  reader's  memory 
long  after  he  has  turned  over  the  last  pages  of  this  remarkably  fascinating  book." — 
London  Daily  Mail. 

"A  delightful  romance.  .  .  .  The  story  is  not  only  historically  accurate ;  it  is  one 
Of  continuous  and  vivid  interest" — Philadelphia  Press. 

"  Simply  enthralling:.  .  .  .  The  narrative  abounds  in  vivid  descriptions  of  stirring 
•ncidents  and  wonderfully  attractive  depictions  of  character.  Indeed,  one  might  almost 
say  of  'The  Reds  of  the  Midi'  that  it  has  all  the  fire  and  forcefulness  of  the  elder 
Dumas,  with  something  more  than  Dumas's  faculty  for  dramatic  compression." — 
Boston  Beacon. 

"  A  charmingly  told  story,  and  all  the  more  delightful  because  of  the  unstudied 
simplicity  of  the  spokesman,  Pascalet.  FeMix  Gras  is  a  true  artist,  and  he  has  pleaded 
the  cause  of  a  hated  people  with  the  tact  and  skill  that  only  an  artist  could  employ." — 
Chicago  Evening  Post. 

"  Much  excellent  revolutionary  fiction  in  many  languages  has  been  written  since 
the  announcement  of  the  expiration  of  1889,  or  rather  since  the  contemporary  publica 
tion  of  old  war  records  newly  discovered,  but  there  is  none  more  vivid  than  this  story 
of  men  of  the  south,  written  by  one  of  their  own  blood." — Boston  Herald. 


New  York :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


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BY  S.  R.  CROCKETT. 

Uniform  edition.     Each,  isrno,  cloth,  $1.50. 

ADS'  LOVE.     Illustrated. 


In  this  fresh  and  charming  story,  which  in  some  respects  recalls 
"The  Lilac  Sunbonnet,"  Mr.  Crockett  returns  to  Galloway  and  pictures  the 
humor  and  pathos  of  the  life  which  he  knows  so  well. 


KELLY,    ARAB    OF    THE    CITY.      His 

Progress  and  Adventures.     Illustrated. 

"  A  masterpiece  which  Mark  Twain  himself  has  never  rivaled.  ...  If  there  ever 
was  an  ideal  character  in  fiction  it  is  this  heroic  ragamuffin."  —  London  Daily 

Chronicle. 

"  In  no  one  of  his  books  does  Mr.  Crockett  give  us  a  brighter  or  more  graphic 
picture  of  contemporary  Scotch  life  than  in  '  Cleg  Kelly.'  ...  It  is  one  of  the  great 
books."  —  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

11  One  of  the  most  successful  of  Mr.  Crockett's  works."  —  Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"DOG-MYRTLE  AND  PEAT.     Third  edition. 

"Here  are  idyls,  epics,  dramas  of  human  life,  written  in  words  that  thrill  and 
burn.  .  .  .  Each  is  a  poem  that  has  an  immortal  flavor.  They  are  fragments  of 
the  author's  early  dreams,  too  bright,  too  gorgeous,  too  full  of  the  blood  of  rubies 
and  the  life  of  diamonds  to  be  caught  and  held  palpitating  in  expression's  grasp."— 
Boston  Courier. 

"  Hardly  a  sketch  among  them  all  that  will  not  afford  pleasure  to  the  readerjor 
its  genial  humor,  artistic  local  coloring,  and  admirable  portrayal  of  character."  — 
Boston  Home  Journal. 

"  One  dips  into  the  book  anywhere  and  reads  on  and  on,  fascinated  by  the  writer's 
charm  of  manner."  —  Minneapolis  Tribune. 

'ITHE  LTLAC  SUNBONNET.     Eighth  edition. 

"  A  love  story  pure  and  simple,  one  of  the  old-fashioned,  wholesome,  sun 
shiny  kind,  with  a  pure-minded,  sound-hearted  hero,  and  a  heroine  who  is  merely  a 
good  and  beautiful  woman  ;  and  if  any  other  love  story  hah"  so  sweet  has  been  written 
this  year,  it  has  escaped  our  notice."  —  New  York  Times. 

"The  general  conception  of  the  story,  the  motive  of  which  is  the  growth  of  love 
between  the  young  chief  and  heroine,  is  delineated  with  a  sweetness  and  a  freshness, 
a  naturalness  and  a  certainty,  which  places  'The  Lilac  Sunbonnet'  among  die  best 
stories  of  the  time."—  New  York  Mail  and  Express. 

"  In  its  own  line  this  little  love  story  can  hardly  be  excelled.  It  is  a  pastoral,  an 
idyl—  the  story  of  love  and  courtship  and  marriage  of  a  fine  young  man  and  a  lovely 
girl—  no  more.  But  it  is  told  in  so  thoroughly  delightful  a  manner,  with  such  playful 
humor,  such  delicate  fancy,  such  true  and  sympathetic  feeling,  that  nothing  more  could 
be  desired."  —  Boston  Traveller. 


NEW  YORK:   D.   APPLETON  AND   COMPANY. 


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GILBERT   PARKER'S   BEST   BOOKS. 

SEATS  OF  THE  MIGHTY.  Being  the 
Memoirs  of  Captain  ROBERT  MORAY,  sometime  an  Officer  in 
the  Virginia  Regiment,  and  afterwards  of  Amherst's  Regiment. 
I2mo.  Cloth,  illustrated,  $1.50. 

"  Another  historical  romance  of  the  vividness  and  intensity  of  '  The  Seats  of  the 
Mighty'  has  never  come  from  the  pen  of  an  American.  Mr.  Parker's  latest  work  may, 
without  hesitation,  be  set  down  as  the  best  he  has  done.  From  the  first  chapter  to  the 
last  word  interest  in  the  book  never  wanes;  one  finds  it  difficult  to  interrupt  the  narra 
tive  with  breathing  space.  It  whirls  with  excitement  and  strange  adventure.  .  .  .  All 
of  the  scenes  do  homage  to  the  genius  of  Mr.  Parker,  and  make  '  The  Seats  of  the 
Mighty'  one  of  the  books  of  the  year."—  Chicago  Record. 

"  Mr.  Gilbert  Parker  is  to  be  congratulated  on  the  excellence  of  his  latest  story. 
'The  Seats  of  the  Mighty,'  and  his  readers  are  to  be  congratulated  on  the  direction 
which  his  talents  have  taken  therein.  .  .  .  It  is  so  good  that  we  do  not  stop  to  think  of 
its  literature,  and  the  personality  of  Doltaire  is  a  masterpiece  of  creative  art."—  New 
York  Mail  and  Express. 


TRAIL    OF    THE    SWORD.       A   Novel. 

I2mo.     Paper,  50  cents  ;  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Mr.  Parker  here  adds  to  a  reputation  already  wide,  and  anew  demonstrates  his 
power  of  pictorial  portrayal  and  of  strong  dramatic  situation  and  climax.  "  —  Philadel* 
fhia  Bulletin. 

"The  tale  holds  the  reader's  interest  from  first  to  last,  for  it  is  full  of  fire  and  spirit, 
abounding  in  incident,  and  marked  by  good  character  faxvring."—Pittsburg  Times. 


T 


HE    TRESPASSER.      i2mo.      Paper,  50   cents; 
cloth,  $1.00. 

"  Interest,  pith,  force,  and  charm — Mr.  Parker's  new  story  possesses  all  these 
qualities.  .  .  .  Almost  bare  of  synthetical  decoration,  his  paragraphs  are  stirring  be 
cause  they  are  real.  We  read  at  times— as  we  have  read  the  great  masters  of  romance 
—breathlessly."—  The  Critic. 

"Gilbert  Parker  writes  a  strong  novel,  but  thus  far  this  is  his  masterpiece.  .  .  . 
It  is  one  of  the  great  novels  of  the  year."— Boston  Advertiser. 


T 


HE  TRANSLATION  OF  A  SAVAGE.     i6mo. 

Flexible  cloth,  75  cents. 

"A  book  which  no  one  will  be  satisfied  to  put  down  until  the  end  has  been  matter 
of  certainty  and  assurance." — The  Nation. 

"  A  story  of  remarkable  interest,  originality,  and  ingenuity  of  construction."— 
Boston  Home  Journal. 

"  The  perusal  of  this  romance  will  repay  those  who  care  for  new  and  original  types 
of  character,  and  who  are  susceptible  to  the  fascination  of  a  fresh  and  vigorous  style." 
— London  Daily  News. 


New  York:  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


D.  APPLETON  &  CO.'S  PUBLICATIONS. 

RUDYARD  KIPLING'S  NEW  BOOK. 

SEVEN  SEAS.  A  new  volume  of  poems  by 
RUDYARD  KIPLING,  author  of  "  Many  Inventions,"  "  Barrack- 
Room  Ballads,"  etc.  I2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50  ;  half  calf,  $3.00  ; 
morocco,  $5.00. 

"  The  spirit  and  method  of  Kipling's  fresh  and  virile  song  have  taken  the  English 
reading  world.  .  .  .  When  we  turn  to  the  larger  portion  of '  The  Seven  Seas/  how 
imaginative  it  is,  how  impassioned,  how  superbly  rhythmic  and  sonorous !  .  .  .  The 
ring  and  diction  of  this  verse  add  new  elements  to  our  song.  .  .  .  The  true  laureate 
of  Greater  Britain."— £.  C.  Stedman,  in  the  Book  Buyer. 

"  The  most  original  poet  who  has  appeared  in  his  generation.  .  .  .  His  is  the  lusti 
est  voice  now  lifted  in  the  world,  the  clearest,  the  bravest,  with  the  fewest  false  notes 
in  it.  ...  I  do  not  see  why,  in  reading  his  book,  we  should  not  put  ourselves  in  the 
presence  of  a  great  poet  again,  and  consent  to  put  off  our  mourning  for  the  high  ones 
lately  dead."—  W.  D.  Howells. 

"  The  new  poems  of  Mr.  Rudyard  Kipling  have  all  the  spirit  and  swing  of  their 
predecessors.  Throughout  they  are  instinct  with  the  qualities  which  are  essentially 
his,  and  which  have  made,  and  seem  likely  to  keep,  for  him  his  position  and  wide 
popularity." — London  Times. 

"  He  has  the  very  heart  of  movement,  for  the  lack  of  which  no  metrical  science 
eculd  atone.  He  goes  far  because  he  can." — London  Academy. 

"  '  The  Seven  Seas '  is  the  most  remarkable  book  of  verse  that  Mr.  Kipling  has 
given  us.  Here  the  human  sympathy  is  broader  and  deeper,  the  patriotism  heartier 
and  fuller,  the  intellectual  and  spiritual  insight  keener,  the  command  of  the  literary 
vehicle  more  complete  and  sure,  than  in  any  previous  verse  work  by  the  author.  The 
volume  pulses  with  power — power  often  rough  and  reckless  in  expression,  but  invariably 
conveying  the  effect  intended.  There  is  scarcely  a  line  which  does  not  testify  to  the 
strong  individuality  of  the  writer."— London  Globe. 

"  If  a  man  holding  this  volume  in  his  hands,  with  all  its  extravagance  and  its  savage 
realism,  is  not  aware  that  it  is  animated  through  and  through  with  indubitable  genius — 
then  he  must  be  too  much  the  slave  of  the  conventional  and  the  ordinary  to  understand 
that  Poetry  metamorphoses  herself  in  many  diverse  forms,  and  that  its  one  sovereign 
and  indefeasible  justification  is — truth."— London  Daily  Telegraph. 

"  '  The  Seven  Seas '  is  packed  with  inspiration,  with  humor,  with  pathos,  and  with 
the  old  unequaled  insight  into  the  mind'of  the  rank  and  file." — London  Daily  Chronicle. 

"  Mr.  Kipling's  '  The  Seven  Seas '  is  a  distinct  advance  upon  his  characteristic 
lines.  The  surpassing  strength,  the  almost  violent  originality,  the  glorious  swish  and 
swing  of  his  lines — all  are  there  in  increased  measure.  .  .  .  The  book  is  a  marvel  of 
originality  and  genius — a  brand-new  landmark  in  the  history  of  English  letters."— 
Chicago  Tribune. 

"  In  '  The  Seven  Seas '  are  displayed  all  of  Kipling's  prodigious  gifts.  .  .  .  Whoever 
reads  '  The  Seven  Seas '  will  be  vexed  by  the  desire  to  read  it  again.  The  average 
charm  of  the  gifts  alone  is  irresistible." — Boston  Journal. 


New  York :  D.  APPLETON  &  CO.,  72  Fifth  Avenue. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


100m-8,'65  (F6282s8)2373 


STORED  AT  NRLF 


PS1732.J38 


3  2106  00206  9018 


